


Secrets of Scary People

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: The Autumn Effect [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 22,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5926219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shots centered around Doctor Crane's days as a practicing psychologist, both before and during his experiments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Scarecrow Meets Mary Sue

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you may remember Mary Sue from 'College Days'. If you don't, never fear. Jonathan remembers her quite well. 
> 
> Unfortunately for her.
> 
> You get this today because it's old and I feel a teeny-tiny bit guilty for not having anything else.

"A Mary Sue Jones is here to see you, Doctor."

Where had he heard that name before? He could have sworn he'd heard it somewhere…

"Send her in."

He glanced at the file on his desk. Postpartum depression after the birth of her…fifth child? Fifth? Did this woman not know the meaning of birth control?

The woman in question came in dressed in a too-tight tank top and shorts ten years too young. She _looked_ familiar, anyway…

"Jonathan Crane?"

"Yes."

"Ohmygod! We went to college together."

 _Now_ he remembered her. It took all his willpower not to plunk his head on the desk. What had he done to deserve this?

"Ah, yes. Good to see you again."

No wonder she had five children. She probably hadn't figured out how babies were made.

"I'm glad I got you. You studied the hardest."

Obviously.

She moved a little closer, letting her breasts hang out over her top. Postpartum depression, indeed. He didn't believe that for a minute.

"You know, I always thought you were kinda cute."

He was aware of this, unfortunately. She'd made that very clear.

**_I think she has a nice sized chest, if you know what I mean._ **

_Quit ogling._

**_Get your mind out of the gutter! I don't want a disease. I meant for screaming._ **

Oh. Yes, she did have a nice sized chest for screaming. He could appreciate that. Did he have any other appointments soon…no.

"I have a very effective treatment for my depressive patients." he said smoothly. "I think you'll react very nicely to it."

"I thought we were supposed to talk about feelings and stuff."

"It's similar to that."

**_Oh, if she only knew!_ **

"Oh. Okay, then."

She looked a little put out that he was ignoring her. Scarecrow grinned and eased ever-so-gently into place. She wouldn't even notice. Bitch. She was going to be so, so sorry she'd ever come through that door.

"Take a deep breath and close your eyes." he said. "Just relax."

He plucked the aerosol can and his nice new mask from the desk. Once the mask was safely over his face, he aimed the can at her face and pressed the button.

_Three…two…one…_

The screams began. Scarecrow was grateful for the soundproof walls. Now he could enjoy this in peace.

"Now, Mrs. Jones, tell me what you see."

* * *

"…and then I told her to come back next week for another session!"

"You didn't."

"Well, Jonny did. Technically."

"Put him on, Scarecrow."

Scarecrow scoffed. A minute later his eyes softened and Jonathan blinked up at her.

"Hey, Kitty."

"So. Mary Sue."

He nodded and closed his eyes.

"We straightened things out."

She shook her head and wondered why she ever left him alone.

"Just don't…kill her. Okay?"

"I'll try very hard not to kill her."

"Jonathan!"

But that was all he would promise. If she hadn't met this…this…troll…she would have been a little more insistent. Think of the paperwork!

 

THE END


	2. Patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the work party. Or the school party, for some of you. I always touched lots of doorknobs in hopes of becoming ill enough to remain at home.

Jonathan Crane is not a people person. He hates office parties, pep rallies, and Christmas drinks. The only good thing that comes from these events is the plethora of test subjects.

Not only is he not a people person, there is one type of person that he absolutely _loathes_. The optimists.

Arkham is teaming with them, with their permanently smiling faces and their horribly high-pitched voices. God save him from his coworkers.

"Doctor Crane, glad you could make it!"

As if he had a choice.

"Doctor Leland." He hopes a lightning bolt comes down and zaps her. "Glad I could come."

He's not a drinker, but he takes the champagne she offers him. Maybe that will see him through.

He would love to gas the lot of them, but he did that on Halloween and it'll draw attention if he does it at Christmas. The Joker can only be blamed so many times.

He greets everyone, even that annoying intern that has a crush on him, before hiding in the far corner. Where the hell is Kitty? Why does he have to do this by himself?

"Having fun, Doctor Crane?"

"No." he growls. "I hate these. You know that."

"Just keep smiling."

"My face hurts."

She ignores him and disappears back into the throng. How she can handle these things is a mystery for the ages.

He takes a sip of his champagne-ugh, cheap-and sighs. Perhaps he'll be stuck by spontaneous vomiting. Or maybe the place will catch on fire.

By nine-thirty, Scarecrow is begging to be released and his head is aching. He's been here long enough. Time to leave, before he does something he regrets.

"Please, let's go home." he whispers. "We've been here long enough."

"Headache?"

"Something like that."

She drops the keys in his hand and they start making their rounds, thanking whoever bought the cheap champagne and wishing everyone a happy holiday. The garish mistletoe has fallen off the door at some point. Jonathan considers that an omen. He bends down to pick it up and hesitates before throwing it out. What will his toxin do to plants? He'll have to check on that.

Two whole months until the Valentine's party. That's plenty of time to plan.

THE END


	3. Tired

"Doctor Crane, there's…"

Kitty Richardson stopped short. Jonathan Crane was slumped over his desk, eyes closed. His glasses had fallen down his nose and his head was pillowed on his arms.

 _Poor thing's worn out. I_ told _him to come home on time!_

She hated to wake him, but it really was urgent.

"Jonathan?" she said softly. "Jonathan, wake up."

He groaned and twisted a bit. She shook him.

"K-Kitty?"

"Morning, love."

"What…?"

"You fell asleep. I told you to quit staying late."

"Mm."

"Come on, wake up."

He fixed his glasses and blinked several times.

"What is it?"

"Papers for you, Doctor Crane. And a prescription for some sleep."

That got a laugh out of him and he finally pulled himself up.

"Prescription?"

"To be taken at nine-thirty at night for a week."

"Will ten do?"

"Depends on what that half hour is spent doing." she said promptly. "No work after eight-fifteen."

"Really?"

"Really. Sign those, Doctor. Don't forget to fill that prescription."

Sure enough, she got him to go home at eight sharp-a lovely change from the ten or later he'd been pulling-and by nine forty-five he was asleep. Kitty was surprised he'd managed supper, actually. Most of the evening had been spent watching _Rear Window_ on the couch. And…other things. Yes. Plenty of other things. He had liked her shirt better on the floor. At least the buttons stayed on this time.

The new neighbors were noisy as hell. They needed to move their bed. Unfortunately, they woke Jonathan up.

"What's going on?"

"Neighbors."

It took him a minute, but he suddenly went very still and refused to make eye contact. Kitty repressed a snicker.

"Ah."

"Yeah."

"Well, then. It's late, and we have work in the morning."

"Yes."

The last thing she was expecting him to do was fling a copy of _Crime and Punishment_ at the wall. The noise halted immediately.

"There." he said smugly. "They've been warned."

They were quiet for several minutes before the noise started again. This time Kitty got a piece of paper and a pencil and handed it to Jonathan.

"Write something biting and shaming."

It took him a few minutes, but eventually he deemed the note worthy enough and gave it to Kitty. She glanced over it.

_To apartment 1406: it's nice that you're getting along. Please go back to arguing-we're tired._

Yes. This would do nicely. She nipped over, stuck the note on the door and knocked before darting back inside. A minute later there was an indigent shout.

"They got it." she reported. Jonathan yawned and closed his eyes again.

"Night, Kitty."

She settled back in bed and felt him roll over to hug her. His breathing slowed and softened. The apartment next door was silent. She could sleep now.

THE END


	4. Deadly

Where the hell was she? They had already come too close to being found out! They had to go on time tonight. So _where the hell was she_?

"You idiot!" Well, there was that mystery solved. "What did you think…"

Her voice faded and he made his way along the dim corridor. What was going on now?

"If you fuck this up again, I will make you scream until your vocal cords snap in half!" What? "Do I make myself clear?"

There was a whimper of agreement and a minute later, one of their delivery men came rushing past him. He was slightly insulted that they didn't even notice him. He shoved open the door.

"Jonathan." She straightened her skirt out and picked up her purse. "Ready to go?"

"What happened?"

"There was a slight mishap. It's taken care of."

"Taken care of."

"We had words."

"I heard."

She winced and reached up to remove a couple of errant bobby pins.

"Sorry."

"It was…um…good." He pauses. "May I borrow them?"

"My bobby pins?"

"Your words."

"Oh. Sure."

Good. He would have to file that away somewhere for later usage.

**_Marry her._ **

_I'm considering it._

**_Didn't somebody have a quote about this kind of thing?_ **

Quote? What quote…oh. _Oh._ Kipling was right. He'd have to keep that quote in mind from now on.

"Come on, let's go home."

She looped her arm through his and they started towards the door, flicking the lights off as they went.

"Kitty?"

"Mm."

"How exactly were you going to carry out that threat?"

"Trade secret, love."

Yes. Kipling was right. The female of the species was _much_ more deadly than the male.

THE END


	5. Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Oz the gweat and tewwible" comes from Stephen King's Pet Sematary. Scary book. Any horror junkies out there should look into that. You won't sleep for a night or two, but hey-isn't that the mark of a good scare?

He'd honestly been trying to help. This particular patient had issues with risk-taking, and he'd been hoping to trigger a panic response and go from there.

But something had gone wrong and now here she was, slumped in the chair, her face frozen in horror. She wouldn't be going back to her cell today. She wouldn't be going back at all.

If he'd realised that his toxin was that powerful, he'd have been more careful. He'd have lowered the dosage, maybe, or checked her heart more carefully, or something. But he really had been trying to help this time.

How was he going to explain this?

He closed her eyes before unshackling her. Heart attack-physically, at least, that was it. Anyone who came nosing around could be dealt with.

_**Want me to clean it up?** _

_I'll do it._

It occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, he was in over his head. But he brushed that thought away as quickly as it came. He knew what he was doing. He'd be more careful next time, that was all.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Howell." he said quietly. "I really was trying to help."

As if it mattered now.

It didn't really hit him that he'd killed someone-again-until later that night, after dinner. He was reading and something about the words _Oz the gweat and tewwible_ triggered something and then he was going to be sick and Jesus _Christ_ what had he done…

He found himself slumped over the toilet a minute later, his mouth tasting of bile and yellow, stringy saliva clinging to his lips.

"Jonathan?"

Shit. Kitty. He hadn't told her. Not on purpose-it just hadn't occurred to him that he should tell her.

"Jonathan, what's going on?"

His stomach gave another clench and he spat up the remains of dinner. Ugh, why had it been spaghetti?

"Jonathan!"

"She's dead." There was silence on the other side of the bathroom door. "Mrs. Howell."

"I know. Heart attack."

"No."

"May I come in?"

"No!" Shouting made his stomach hurt. "No, give me a minute."

He heard her leave and he sank to the floor, the smell of porcelain making him nauseous. His fingers, shaking and numb, sought out the flusher.

A few minutes later, he'd rinsed his mouth out and stumbled back to the sofa. God, what had he _done_?

"God, you look like death. Have you got the flu?"

He shook his head and collapsed into the far corner.

"She's dead."

"I know you were fond of her."

He had been. She'd been a funny old lady, despite her risk-taking behaviour. She'd been the woman he wished Granny had been.

"It isn't that."

"What's wrong?"

"I gave her a dose. Of the…" _Spit it out!_ "Toxin. I was trying to help, Kitty, I swear to God…"

"You gave her a…Jonathan…"

"I was trying to help. You know what she was like, I was trying to help. It was an accident…"

He swallowed hard and hugged the throw pillow. His stomach hurt.

"Okay." she said softly. "Okay. Does anyone else know about this?"

Who else would he tell, the almighty janitor?

"No."

"Okay. Come on. You're going to take a Benadryl and get some sleep."

"I didn't mean for that to happen."

"Shh. Come on."

He let her tuck him in and swallowed the pills without a fuss. God, he hadn't meant for any of this…he'd been trying to help…

_**Yeah, well, look what that got you.** _

_This is your fault. You thought it would be a good idea. You killed Granny, and that teacher._

_**You killed Granny.** _

_You thought this would be a good idea!_

_**So did you.** _

_I was trying to help! I'm a doctor, Scarecrow, not some sort of…_

_**Murderer? Jon, it was an accident.** _

_Granny wasn't, and neither was Kitty's professor._

_**You'll feel better in the morning.** _

_I can't do this anymore._

_**You will, you little whelp, if I have to hijack you!** _

_Scarecrow, please…_

_**Shh, shh. You're distraught. Go to sleep.** _

That was not at all reassuring.

THE END


	6. Morning

Jonathan Crane lay in bed, enjoying an extra minute of waking up. It was a typical Gotham morning-rain, angry drivers, the smoke alarm going off…

Wait.

_Smoke alarm?_

He rolled over, reaching for his glasses, and realised that he'd misjudged the distance between him and the edge of the bed. There was a second of vain flailing before he went down, wrapped in the blankets.

_Oww…_

He clawed his way out of the cocoon, decided against hunting for his glasses, and stumbled into the kitchen. Smoke alarm, smoke alarm…ah. There it was. He smacked it and it shut up. Nothing seemed to be on fire, so…oh.

"Kitty?"

"Fire's out."

"Fire?"

"The toaster had an accident."

Again? They really needed to buy something besides a new bookshelf.

"Mm."

"Coffee's ready."

He nodded and started hunting for a mug. Mug, mug…mug.

She'd said something else. It occurred to him that he should probably answer her.

"Mm."

Ahh. Coffee. Much better. Now he could function like a normal human being.

"In other news, I'm now sleeping with Oswald Cobblepot."

He choked and stared at her. She was grinning at him.

"Awake now?"

Why did she always have to scare him like that?

"Yes."

She strolled back into the bedroom. He took another drink of his coffee and rubbed his head. He _hated_ mornings.

Whether or not he hated mornings, he really did have to get dressed.

**_Or watch Kitty get dressed._ **

_Don' wanna be late._

**_Can't multitask?_ **

_Shushy._

He's just about to finish his coffee when she calls his name.

"Jonathan?"

"Yes?"

"Would you help me with this?"

**_I like the sound of that._ **

_Early._

'This' turns out to be a dress with a zipper back. He hasn't seen this before. Hm.

**_I like it._ **

_EARLY._

**_I can look!_ **

_Sleep._

"Ta." She straightens it out. "Might want to drink your coffee now. You look like a zombie."

"Zombies don' essist."

"There _is_ a drug…hurry up or we'll be late."

"Mm."

God, he hates mornings.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written before Gotham came out, so Oswald looks very much as he does in the comics. THAT mental image will wake you up, guaranteed.


	7. Phone Call

The phone rang _right_ when he was getting to the good part of his book. Only one person had a talent for calling at the worst possible time.

"Crane."

"Heya, Doc!" _Doctor. DOCTOR Crane, cretin!_ "How are ya?"

"Fine."

"I'm not interruptin' anythin', am I?" There was a boisterous laugh before the voice got serious. "Look, Doc, we've been havin' some worries with the shipments."

"Who is it?"

"Falcone." he whispered. "Kill me now."

She gave him a sympathetic look and went into the other room. Damn.

"What sort of trouble?"

"Police are gettin' nosey, if ya know what I mean."

God. Everyone in this city was a greedy bastard, always seeking free money.

**_So are you._ **

_I'm in it for the research._

**_And the free money._ **

_It helps._

"Yes."

Kitty came back in. He didn't notice her until she sat down behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest.

"I'm thinkin' ya need to come down to the docks a little later."

Later? Seriously?

Wait a minute…

What exactly was she doing? Why was she undoing his shirt buttons?

"Sure." What was she doing? Should he be worried? Probably. "That's fine."

What was she…why was she untying his tie? What the hell was she doing?

This was all very distracting.

"How's about two AM?"

Sure, fine, whatever. What the hell was she doing now?

"Sure."

He finally got a hand free and shoved her back onto the bed. There. Now he could wrap this up in peace.

"That'll be fine, Mr. Falcone. Good night."

"Night, Doc."

One of these days, he was going to kill that man. Slowly. Painfully.

"What was that?"

"Got you off the phone under half an hour, didn't it?"

"Yes." He shrugged his shirt off-she'd already unbuttoned it, may as well-and set the phone back in its cradle. "I could've gotten rid of him."

"Two hours later. Every time he calls you two have a verbal pissing contest."

"We do not!"

"Yes, you do."

"I resent that remark."

"Since I was so nice as to get you off the phone under half an hour…" That didn't bode well. " _And_ seeing as I was so nice as to get your shirt buttons undone for you…"

**_I think it bodes well!_ **

_Yeah, well…_

"This zipper is a bitch."

Is that so? How horrible.

"What do you expect me to do about it?"

"Help."

Well…she was nice enough to get him off the phone. He'll oblige.

THE END


	8. Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, a verbal tracking shot.

Gotham is a rainy city. It just is. If it's not actively raining, it's cloudy. Sunny days are a rarity, usually an unwelcome one.

Here, in a roomy apartment with tall, wide windows, the rain cannot get in. Two blocks down, the buildings are not so lucky. But this isn't two blocks down. This is right at the edge of the narrows-looking out of those tall, wide windows grants a view of a rather imposing building in the distance. Arkham Asylum.

Past the navy drapes that hide the rain, a heavy wooden coffee table sits in front of a sofa. It holds two mostly-empty glasses of wine, a thick leather-bound book, and the TV remote. The TV itself is hidden in an entertainment cabinet, which sits next to an old record player that has a stack of records on its lower shelf.

Three tall wooden bookshelves line the far wall, crammed full of books. Paperbacks, hardbacks, antiques…mostly horror, science fiction, and psychology textbooks. (Although there are a fair few classics on the bottom shelf, _Ulysses_ among them.)

There are no dishes in the kitchen sink or drying on the counter. The only things on the counter are a toaster oven, a coffee pot, and a kettle, all sparkling clean.

The bedroom has more bookshelves-also crammed full-a dresser with more books on top, and a small stack of newspapers with headlines such as, _Bruce Wayne-Zombie Playboy?_ , _Third Subway Murder in Two Days_ , and _CEO Commits Suicide_.

Gotham is a rather morbid city, really.

One of the apartment's occupants-Doctor Jonathan Crane, head of Arkham Asylum-is lying in bed, his glasses and a notebook on the nightstand. He's mostly dozing, his hair damp and a pen dangling from his fingers. Looking at him, one would be mistaken for thinking him to be one of Gotham's upstanding citizens.

No, Jonathan Crane is as far from 'upstanding citizen' as it is possible to get. He dislikes children, delights in the screams of others, and has a rather murderous other personality named Scarecrow.

But very few people know about these little quirks, and most people who find out never get the chance to share.

The shower shuts off and he stirs a little. When nothing else happens, he relaxes again, his body melting into the sheets.

The bathroom resembles a small sauna. Nothing is visible in the mirror-or anywhere else, for that matter. A serial killer could be sitting in here unnoticed.

The only person in here is the apartment's other occupant, Kitty Richardson. She works at Arkham, too, as its head nurse. Unofficially, she's also Jonathan Crane's second-in-command.

More than one person has wondered what she sees in him. He never shows much interest in anything besides his work-not popular culture, not obscure culture…nothing. Fear and psychology, and that's all.

The answer is not as simple as it would appear. A shared history, driven by her need to hug him and feed him and his need to be a normal human, if a slightly fucked-up one. But that's just the tip of the iceberg. Psychology one-oh-one: nothing is ever as simple as it seems.

The blow-dryer turns on as the steam begins to clear, trickling out under the door. Five minutes later, said door opens.

She grabs the wine glasses off the table and puts them in the dishwasher before turning off the lights and making her way back the bedroom. She only stubs her toe once on the way.

He's still dozing, the pen having fallen from his fingers. She picks that up as well and sets it on his notebook before bending over him and giving him a kiss.

"Jonathan."

He opens his eyes-an unnervingly cold blue in that pale face-and his lips twitch in a small smirk.

"You took your time."

"I told you I had to shower."

"Shower, not climb Mount Everest."

She swats his arm and slips under the covers with him.

Not four months from now, this apartment, and the ones two blocks down, will be flooded with fear.

THE END


	9. Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is positively ancient-must be one of my very, very early one-shots. 2012, maybe?

It's the first batch that's given them results. The mice they tested it on had a favorable reaction, and now it's time for the next step.

Jonathan would rather try it on a patient, but Kitty says that's too dangerous. Maybe she's right-the inmates are already insane and there's no guarantee that they will be able to tell the results. They will have to test it out themselves, at least at first.

They've taken a little bit home to try, seeing as it isn't the brightest idea for the director and the assistant director to be found using an unknown drug, not on the premises. They call in sick and Kitty puts the mobile within grabbing range as Jonathan fills the needle.

It looks so harmless. It's a clear liquid, no particular sign of the drugs that went into it. But oh, god…if they're right, that little needle contains hell.

"I'll go first." he says.

"Are you sure?"

No.

"Yes."

"Want me to do it?"

"Yes."

Who knows how fast this will work? The mice had nearly instantaneous reactions. For safety's sake, they've rigged their bed with straps, like one of the stretchers. Kitty straps him in and he does his best to ignore Scarecrow's commentary.

"Ready?" she asks softly.

"Yes."

The liquid slithers into his veins delicately and Kitty's barely removed the needle when his vision blurs.

The walls are melting. A hissing voice in the back of his head says it's a hallucination, nothing more, but that voice is silenced when a drop falls from the ceiling. It's hotter than hell and he can feel it sizzling through his skin. He is restrained. Why is he restrained? He tugs at the straps around his wrists, but they don't give.

"Jonathan?"

He cringes. That voice is not a good one. It sounds almost like Granny, but it can't be. She's dead. Isn't she? Maybe she isn't. He should have known she wouldn't stay dead!

"Jonathan." The voice is insistent. "What do you see?"

How does she not see? Where is she, anyway?

"Granny, I…"

"What do you see, Jonathan?"

Why does she keep saying that? Is she blind? The crows must have pecked out her eyes. He prepares for punishment by turning his head to the side, his only defense.

"Jonathan!"

There's Granny, at his side. He cracks his eyes open.

It's here, all right, looking just as she did the last time he saw her. She has a bible in her hand and a cross around her neck. He squeezes his eyes shut again.

"Please…"

"Shut up, you idiot boy."

The walls are melting faster behind her and the burning drops rain down on his face.

"Granny, I…"

She strikes him hard across the face and he silences. How is she avoiding the burning rain?

He shivers despite the heat in the room. Is he ill? He doesn't remember becoming ill.

"Please…"

Then there is silence.

* * *

Jonathan wakes unrestrained and completely intact. There's a warm thing to his right and he moves towards it. It turns out to be Kitty.

"Kitty?"

"Hullo."

She sounds tired and stressed. He settles against her side, enjoying the warmth.

"What happened?"

"It works." she says. "It works very well."

"Good." He yawns. "What happened?"

"You'll have to tell me."

He will, he will. But later. Right now he just wants the reminder that Granny is long dead and that he is safe. He hugs her, enjoying the fact that she is neither melting nor is she Granny.

"You all right?"

"It works." he mumbles. "Tell you later, I promise."

She hugs him back, her breath ruffling his hair. He sighs. He is safe. Everything was a hallucination.

Now that he is calmed down, he looks back on the experience. It was all incredibly vivid, and he's no fool. He wonders what it will do to…other people. Upon their return to work, he will have to see. This weekend, though, he'll have to see about immunities. If there is no immunity, they will have to create an antidote. Can't have accidents happening.

"Night, Kitty."

"You're sure you're all right?"

"Yes."

She rubs his shoulders and he wonders exactly what it seemed like to an outsider. Scarecrow has deserted him and still isn't back, so he can't ask. Not that he cares. Scarecrow would probably say it was all great fun, anyway.

He isn't expecting Kitty to be crying. She's moved so her face is pressed against his chest and she's absolutely _shaking_. Little whines are coming out of her throat and her grip feels strong enough to break his ribs.

"Kitty?"

"Don't do it again." she chokes out. "No more." He rubs her back and keeps his mouth shut. Soon enough, she quiets down. "Night, Jonathan."

"Shh."

He really will have to ask her what it looked like. For heaven's sake, she's more rattled than he is! It must have been awful.

Well, they've got all weekend to play around with this stuff. They'll see.

THE END


	10. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion piece to 'Test'.
> 
> I feel mildly guilty, but I did warn y'all that things might get backlogged because I have to prep a novel for publication. SUCH a bitch...

Jonathan is lying on their bed, shirtless and soaked with sweat. The toxin wore off some time ago, but Kitty can't convince him to just sleep. He's close, desperately close, but every time he starts to nod off he jerks himself awake.

His eyes are closed but she knows that when he opens them they'll be a frightening shade of blue. It unnerves her, that colour. It's unexpected.

He sighs and shifts a tiny bit, his hair falling across his forehead. Why won't he sleep?

Perhaps the effects haven't completely worn off just yet. That would explain the restlessness.

It's rare, even when he _is_ asleep, to see him this still. As of late, the nightmares have been getting the better of him. She can see that he's tired, why won't he sleep?

She can see the scars from the birds and his grandmother. They run from his neck downwards, scattered haphazardly across his skin. Some of them have faded over the years, but there's a decent amount that are still very visible. She doesn't have a clue where most of them came from, but there's a few that she knows. The long, jagged scar across his chest comes from one of the idiots they went to school with. He thought he was being clever when he jumped them on the way home from school. The neighbor's dog thought _he_ was being clever when he jumped the fence and ripped his pants off.

"Kitty?"

"Hm?"

He's shaking again, this time from fever-like chills. A side effect, she guesses. She jots it down before standing up and approaching him. He's no longer violent, thankfully, but she's hesitant to get too close. At least he knows her now.

"Cold."

"I'm going to help you get under the covers now, yeah?" He nods. "Okay."

He's limp and unhelpful and it takes a few minutes to get him covered up. She wonders if he's temporarily paralyzed or simply exhausted. That may require more research.

"How's that?"

His eyes are closed again, but he's not asleep.

"S'okay."

"D'you need another blanket?"

"No."

"D'you want me to stay here?"

He nods. Good. Before, he was convinced she was his grandmother and things had gotten…scary.

She sits down beside him. He sighs and his head falls back. Why won't he sleep?

After a few minutes of silence, she risks putting her hand on his head. The world does not explode, the bed does not catch on fire, and he does not react. That's good.

After a few more minutes, she deems it safe to play with his hair. Really, the man has been _blessed_ with soft hair, and it would be a sin to leave it alone. Besides, when he's in his right mind he enjoys it.

She leaves to get a cup of tea half an hour later. When she comes back, he's asleep. She freezes in the doorway as if the slightest breath will wake him, but he doesn't stir.

It takes her a minute to settle down beside him, but she manages to do it without waking him up. His breathing is easy now and he looks relaxed. No nightmares. She checks the time: eight thirty-six.

He looks so helpless lying here, but she knows better. He's stronger than he looks.

She picks up a book and leans against the headboard. Jonathan sighs and rolls over, the blankets sliding halfway down his back.

There's more scars there, too, these ones much more visible. Most of these come from birds, but the one that runs along his spine does not. That one comes from an…accident, Jonathan said. Something involving the devil. He didn't go into details and she didn't want to know. Not really.

He moves his hand so it's on the pillow by his head and she spots something on his wrist. Another scar, like so many others, but this does not come from a bird. It runs along his vein for a brief distance before veering off. Suicide attempt?

"Dear Jesus, Jonathan." she whispers. "Jesus Christ, what did you do?"

He doesn't stir. She's half-expecting him to answer, but he doesn't. That's almost relieving. He needs the sleep.

There's bruises along his wrists from where he was fighting the restraints and she grimaces. He'll notice those eventually and then they'll talk about a new strategy.

Jonathan coughs and mumbles something incoherent. Kitty puts her hand on his head again and he nudges against her fingers like a cat.

"Kitty?"

When did he wake up? Was he even asleep?

"Go to sleep, Jonathan." she begs. "You're exhausted."

"Scarecrow said that." His voice slurs. "I don't feel tired."

Overtired, then. She knows that feeling. He turns again, his eyes still closed.

"Go to sleep."

"Can't." he says. "Can't sleep, Granny s-said not to."

Ah. So the toxin has residual effects, then.

"She's dead." she reminds him. "You can sleep."

"She said…"

"If she comes back, I'll deal with her. You're exhausted, Jonathan, get some rest."

He rolls back over and goes very still. When she looks at him again, he's out.

Theoretically, he'll stay out for several hours. She hopes he does. They can talk later.

"Good night, Jonathan."

He does not respond. She tucks the blankets around his shoulders, confident that nothing will wake him now. They can talk later, once he's got something in his stomach and she is absolutely positive that the toxin is out of his system.

She's asleep ten minutes later.

THE END


	11. Innocence

Doctor Jonathan Crane. The youngest director Arkham Asylum has ever seen. Graduated at the top of his class, brimming with new treatment ideas…perhaps he'll be the one to finally drag Arkham's sinister reputation out of the mud.

Or perhaps not. Behind that quiet, studious face lurks something else. Something made of straw and cruelty, born of hatred and fear.

But his new colleagues know nothing of this.

He intends to keep it that way, through any means necessary.

He isn't crazy. He's just…divided. He can manage it. Sure, there's been a few lapses of control, but those days are behind him now. Nothing has happened since his sophomore year of college. Nothing is wrong.

He's here to help. These people…criminals or not, he's here to help. Somebody has to, after all. Being forgotten, shoved into a dark corner…nobody deserves that.

They never thought he'd manage it. Such a skinny man…inmates like Killer Croc could snap him like a twig. But he proved them wrong. Croc is not his patient-Croc is nobody's patient, but he's hoping to change that-but they've met. It went…well…all things considered. He wasn't eaten. They didn't particularly like each other, but he wasn't eaten.

It took work. It took long hours and more sleepless nights than he'd realised, but now here he is, with a little plaque on his door that says, 'Doctor Jonathan Crane, Director' in gold letters.

It's rather ugly, actually.

He looks at his schedule, crammed full, as usual. He won't be leaving until ten or later this evening. That's fine. He already doesn't sleep.

Mary Kelly. Never mind that she shares a name with a Ripper victim. She's not one of his favorites, really-she has, among other things, a nasty case of OCD. Worse than his college neighbor's, even, which is saying something.

Dull. She's only here because that OCD made her kill two people instead of one-her 'number' and all. She's only a little sorry.

**_You're not sorry at all, so quit judging._ **

_We discussed this. While I am working, you be quiet._

**_You're always working! I am bored!_ **

_Too bad._

He closes his appointment book and takes a deep breath. It's time for the day to begin properly.

He presses the buzzer.

"Brianna, tell them to bring me Mary Kelly."

"Right away, Doctor Crane."

Maybe today he can get her to only open the door one time.

THE END


	12. Oops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oswald (the Penguin, but he's not there yet) Cobblepot appears as he does in Gotham. Sorry in advance, Ozzy m'lad. This is going to hurt.

Arkham Asylum was not a place to let one's guard down. Despite everyone's best efforts, inmates sometimes got out. None of them had ever gotten out of the building, but there had been…accidents.

So when someone rested their hand on Kitty Richardson's shoulder, she did the only sensible thing-elbowed them in the face and kicked them in the groin.

"Oww…"

Hang on…

"Oswald?"

"Ohh…"

"I'm sorry!" She dropped her clipboard and handed him a tissue for his bleeding nose. "Last time someone did that, it turned out to be an escaped serial killer…nothing's broken, is it?"

Oswald Cobblepot huddled on the floor, his knees drawn up and one hand pressing the tissue to his nose. A little ways away from him lay his trusty umbrella.

"da' hurd."

"I'm really sorry! You should have said something…let me see it."

"Wha' was' da' for?"

"I thought you were that weird patient. The giggling one. He's been out twice…it doesn't look broken. Just puffy."

"Do you _hab_ do wear dose heels?"

"I didn't know it was you. What are you doing here, anyway? Fish send you?"

He nodded and got unsteadily to his feet.

"Thad really hurd…"

"Don't be such a baby. You're not dead and the bleeding's slowing. Say something next time. Come on, Jonathan should be in his office."

She gathered her papers and he picked up his umbrella. She felt a little guilty, but not that guilty. A girl had to be careful in here. Just last month one of their serial rapists had gotten out and found one of the nurses…she was still on leave.

"What's she want now?"

"Nod oud here."

"Well, _fine_. Here we are. Try not to tick him off too much-Scarecrow's been antsy lately. Sorry again about the…ah…brutal assault." She patted his arm. "Enjoy."

THE END


	13. Broken Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one Gotham trailer…I swear to god, somebody must've sent a group text saying, 'Par-t crime alley lol!' Seriously. Edward gets a free pass, because he's with the police, but Selina? Oswald? God-knows-who-else? Okay, who's bringing the booze?

There has been a murder in the alley. That's nothing new. There was a murder in their apartment building last week. (Drunk man smashed his boyfriend's head in with a cast-iron skillet. The biohazard team barely left today.)

Nosy bastards that they are, they're glued to the back window, wine glasses in hand, trying to see who it was. What? There's nothing on TV and they didn't get to go to the bookstore yesterday. (Attempted escape at Arkham. She had be…taught a lesson.)

The police have cordoned off the location and thrown a tarp over the body. Damn. And yet they look. Why not? This is Gotham. You can be morbid here without getting weird looks.

Their old college neighbor, Edward Nygma, is down there. Jonathan is grateful he doesn't know they live here. It's bad enough dealing with him if there's a suspicious death at the asylum. (So…every time somebody dies.)

He rather hopes he'll catch pneumonia and die, but that's unlikely. Edward is simply too annoying to die of a mere cold. He'll just have to hope he irritates the wrong person and gets shot. That would be fair.

Standing a little ways outside of the crime scene is another man he knows-Oswald Cobblepot, known not-so-affectionately as the Penguin. He walks like one. It doesn't help that he has a rather beak-y nose. What's he doing down there?

_Probably had something to do with it._

Who is it? This is very irritating. How dare they cover the body! People are trying to look, for heaven's sake!

He drains what little liquid is left in his glass and straightens up. They're not going to find out who it was, unfortunately. Damn.

"How dare they protect their privacy."

"I know."

"Can't even get any halfway decent gossip in this town…I ask you. Disgraceful."

"Quite."

He sets the glass down and wonders what happened. He didn't hear anything. The first he knew about it was the police siren. Hopefully it'll be interesting enough to make the news…

"I think that's the end of the entertainment." he says. "More's the pity."

"Mm."

He tugs her back from the glass and pulls the drapes shut.

"I believe we made a bargain earlier today, Miss Richardson." he says. "Did we not?"

"I suppose we did, Doctor Crane."

He takes one last, curious glance at the commotion outside before turning away from the window. There's more interesting things to do now.

THE END


	14. The Pied Piper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This dream made sense at the time. Don't ask.

She's somewhere in that place between sleeping and waking, aware of her immediate surroundings (squishy mattress, dark room, Jonathan's arms around her) but mostly interested in her dream ( _Doctor Who_ and _Lord of the Rings_ crossover).

There's a ringing noise in the TARDIS. Why is there is a ringing noise in the TARDIS? Maybe Frodo touched something…fucking Frodo.

The ringing continues and she's unhappily aware that Jonathan's rolled over for something.

Phone.

Some heartless monster is calling them.

She blames Frodo anyway.

"Crane." He doesn't sound awake _at all_. That makes two of them.

She's about to ignore this and go back to sleep-that'll teach him to leave his phone on-when a horrible, unfairly chipper voice reaches her ears.

"Jon, it's Eddie."

"I don't know an Eddie."

The chipper voice laughs and she wonders if she can throw the owner into the fires of Mt. Doom.

"Edward Nygma."

"Why do you have this number?"

"Because you gave it to me."

"I don't remember that."

"Okay, I got it out of your secretary. You need to come down to the police station."

"No."

"Jon." He sounds serious. "One of your old patients is here. Says he'll only talk to you, and we kind of need you."

"What does this have to do with you?"

"They were too dumb to solve my riddle and get your number." He laughs again. "Something about a kidnapping. Come here."

"I hate you, Nygma."

"I know. See you soon."

There's the _clap_ of the phone being closed.

"You're not leaving."

"I don't have much of a choice."

"Give me that phone."

"Why?"

"I'm going to kill him."

"I don't think that'll work. Go back to sleep. I don't intend to be too long."

"It's the middle of the night!"

The phone rings again.

"Crane."

"Are you driving yet?"

He hangs up.

"I don't think he cares."

"Want me to go with you?"

"No. I'll just see what they want, get him to erase my number, and come home. Forty minutes, maybe."

"Drive safe."

He pats her on the head and she feels him get up.

Damn Frodo.

* * *

"What is it, Nygma."

"Jon! Glad you could make it."

"With you calling me every ten minutes…"

"I wanted to make sure you didn't go back to sleep."

"What. Is. It."

"He's in here. I guess this says something about your skills as a doctor, Jon, if he wants to risk waking you up."

"Answer the question."

"Kidnapping." comes the sharp response. "A little girl. We found him trying to grab a little boy, but either the girl's a hostage or dead somewhere."

Oh, great. And they can't get the information out of him another way? It's no secret that the GCPD is good at…erm…aggressive questioning.

"Okay."

"You go and talk to him. Good luck. And hey…"

"What."

"It's not his fault you're awake, so don't kill him before you get the information."

That doesn't warrant a response.

'The old patient' turns out to be a man known to the media as the Pied Piper. He's been arrested for kidnapping before, sent to Arkham for a time, and released. Jonathan's not surprised that he's started up again-in his experience, pedophiles do not reform. He really hadn't been too thrilled to release him, but there had no other option at the time. He hadn't been the director then.

"Doctor Crane."

The Piper is a polite man, soft-spoken and well-educated. He doesn't _look_ particularly dangerous, either-small and slender, with large-rimmed glasses and a mop of red hair.

"Good evening."

"I'm glad you could come. That man in the hall is very irritating."

He has a point.

"What did you want to talk to me about?"

"They want to find Little Bo Peep." he says. "They already took Little Boy Blue home."

Little what?

Oh. He's named his victims. This is a new development. Perhaps he can get him re-admitted…

"Yes."

"You were always polite to me." A mere formality. Couldn't have him complaining to the authorities. "She'd lost her sheep. I took her to them."

"That's…"

"That's all I'm going to tell you, Doctor." he says. "I'd like to go back to my cell now, please."

He stands up and retreats into the hall, feeling very tired and worn out. He came all the way down here for _that_? Really?

"Well?"

"He took her to her lost sheep." he grumbles. "Whatever that means."

Edward doodles a couple of question marks-he always does that when he's thinking-on his notebook.

"There's a sheep farm a little ways outside of Gotham." he says suddenly. "Thanks, Jon. Go home and get some sleep, huh? You look tired."

If there weren't too many witnesses, he'd strangle the man here and now.

* * *

Kitty's put the kettle on by the time he gets back. It goes off while he's getting back into pajamas.

"What was that all about?"

"The Pied Piper wanted to talk to me."

She grimaces.

"How did it go?"

"As well as could be expected." He burns his tongue and leans against the pillows, cursing his secretary for giving his number to Edward Nygma.

THE END


	15. Torment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, I should be nicer to poor Edward. Gotham-inspired, yadda-yadda. On a side note, I swear to god I saw Granny Keeney in the store. Really. She was in the makeup section. Quite frightening. Carry on.

He hates when patients die. Not because he feels like a failure, or because he'll miss them, but because it's an absolute nightmare. The paperwork, the inquiries, the panic it throws into the superstitious staff and patients…awful.

This time is no different. Sam Drib, in for audial hallucinations telling him to kill his wife and children with an ice pick, hanged himself with the sheets last night. So now he's got paperwork, phone calls, and some forensics man coming down here to make sure it really was a suicide. So paranoid…they didn't care at all about the man when they sent him here.

Typical. Dead people are always more interesting. Saintly, too, if the survivors are to be believed. Even Drib will likely be made out to be a 'poor, tormented soul'. Never mind that his first week here he thought it would be a good idea to fling semen at one of the nurses.

The family has been notified-they're suitably horrified, of course-and he's just about to start on the paperwork when his secretary pokes her head in.

"Forensics is here."

They must be slow-they're never here this fast.

"Fine."

His door opens and he hears, "Doctor Crane, my name is…Jon?"

Oh, _no_.

He did _not_ just hear that voice.

Can he claim ignorance? A bad fall, perhaps, erased his college memories completely? Wrong Crane?

No, probably not. This might be useful, anyhow. Sometimes the suicides…aren't suicides.

All the same, if it was in his nature, and if he could get away with it, he would drop to his knees, raise his arms in the air, and howl, "NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"Edward." Sound pleased. But not too pleased. "Haven't seen you since college."

"So _you're_ the antisocial nut they were warning me about!" Hey! He's not here to give them tea and cookies. "I'm not surprised."

"You look…well." He considers forcing a smile, attempts it, and suspects it comes out as more of a grimace. Maybe no smiling. "I suppose you're here about Drib."

"Yeah. Let me ask you something…" Edward glances at the door and leans forward. "He really did…erm…kill himself, didn't he?"

"What are you implying?"

"I have to ask."

"Edward, do I look like I could strangle a man his size?"

"No."

"Then no. But come on, he's in the morgue."

And if he has to suffer through one riddle, just one, there will be another body in the morgue. Slipped and fell down the stairs. Terrible tragedy. Truly, his heart is broken…the world is a lot less bright without him.

"How long have you been here, anyway?"

"Two years." Technically it's two and a quarter, but still. "Yourself?"

"Three. I hate them. They're idiots. They miss everything important."

That's not surprising.

"Any news on this 'tally man' that's been in the news lately?"

"No."

That's not surprising, either. He wouldn't be surprised if somebody-maybe Edward, maybe not-is tampering with the evidence. It's a common thing here in Gotham. Pay the right people and you really can get away with murder.

"He's in there."

"Are you coming in?"

"Why would I do that?" If memory serves, Edward Nygma has never been fond of morgues. Corpses are fine, but morgues? He doesn't know why (although he's interested), but there it is. Maybe it's the idea of being trapped with a zombie. He really ought to find out one day… "I have work to do. You go in there. Have fun. It's not too terrible, not like the one that ripped his own tongue out."

That had not been a suicide, actually. That had been a mishap with his latest experiment, but no matter.

"I don't know that I can…"

"I'm the director, and I say you can." This time the smile is genuine, with maybe a touch of cruelty in it. "I have paperwork to fill out. Light switch is on the left. If you get lost when you come out, follow the pipes back to my office." He turns, pauses, turns back. "Thanks so much for coming out here so quickly. Good luck."

And with that, he leaves him there. Tempting though it is to stay and see what happens, he really does have paperwork to fill out.

THE END


	16. Fish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written before Gotham aired and particulars were established. (But hey, it could still go down this way.)

"Oh, my god."

"What?"

"He finally did it."

"Who did what now?"

"Cobblepot finally grew a spine."

_"_ _What?"_

He tapped on an article: 'Gotham Crime Boss Found Brutally Murdered'.

"Who else do we know that would tear her face off?" He stretched. "Stabbed through the eye with an umbrella, chunks of flesh torn off with what appears to be a pair of salad tongs, face ripped off…Cobblepot really outdid himself."

"Dear god."

He nodded and had to wonder what had finally pushed the man over the edge. He'd get away with it, of course-nobody really cared about the victim-but still…he'd always figured he'd go with poison. Safer. Maybe it had been in a fit of rage. Or an attempt to shift suspicion.

He wonders who else knows. To him it's obvious, but he's _met_ Cobblepot, seen his dislike of his former employer. And there's the umbrella, of course.

"Think we should send a card or something?"

"For what?"

"I don't know…congratulations?"

Cobblepot might appreciate the gesture.

"No."

THE END


	17. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'Jones' mentioned here is not Killer Croc-I don't know that he'd risk this with Croc. Too easy to get bitten.

He's sitting at his desk, debating on whether to adjust Napier's medication, when the door flies open and Kitty all but drags him out of the chair.

"What's going on?"

"Jones got a gun."

"What?"

"From one of the guards…feigned stomach cramps until he went in, got the gun…he's got one of my nurses. Christine."

"What do you expect me to do?"

"Maybe he'll listen to you."

Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe they'll all be shot.

He follows her out anyway, down the hall to the main lobby. Sure enough, Jones is surrounded by a few of the guards, guns drawn. He's clutching a blonde nurse to him and pressing the gun to her chin.

"Get back!" He's off his medication. Why is he off his medication? "Get back or I'll kill her, I will!"

"Mr. Jones." He raises his hands and steps forward. "Mr. Jones. Sean. It's all right. Just set down the gun."

"No! I ain't gonna die, Doc, so back off!" He gestures with the gun and Jonathan dutifully takes a step back.

"All right. See? Just calm down. Just…set…the gun…down. Gently. We're not going to hurt you."

Jones shakes his head. He's crying now, angry tears. Okay. Um…

He risks taking a step forward. When nothing happens, he takes another. And another, until he's within grabbing range.

"May I take this?" Soothing. Like dealing with a scared dog. Not that he's had much experience with that… "Sean?"

Jones swallows hard and the gun wavers, wavers…and tilts downward. He doesn't want to reach forward just yet, lest he startle the man.

"There we go…now, just release Nurse King and we'll…"

Jones suddenly shoves the nurse away from him and lifts the gun back up. He backs up in a hurry, his hands still held above his head.

"It's all right. It's all right." Calm. Soothing. Buddha. Never mind that one twitchy finger is the difference between being soothing and being dead. "Sean, I want you to put the gun down. Barbara would want you to put the gun down."

Barbara is-or was-Jones' wife. She died last year, but sometimes the man forgets that.

"I want to talk to Barb." The tears are really coming now. "I want to talk to Barb!"

"Okay. I'm going to get her on the phone, all right? Just…just don't move."

The nurse-Christine-has made a hasty retreat. He wishes he could follow her example.

He returns to the throng that's gathered-how helpful, really-and pulls Kitty aside.

"I need you to impersonate Barbara. He probably won't realize who it is."

"Okay."

Just a few more minutes. As long as they can keep him calm, nobody will be killed and he won't have to deal with Edward for the time being.

"We're getting her on the phone right now." he says. "Just give us a minute, all right, Sean?"

Jones nods and clutches the gun to his chest. Perhaps it'll go off, save everyone the trouble…

Somebody comes back with a phone and he picks it up.

"Mrs. Jones?"

"Put him on."

Hopefully this will work.

He hands the phone to Jones and steps back again.

"Barb?" He's quiet for a few minutes, sometimes nodding. "Love you, too, Barb. You'll come visit? Okay, sweetheart. Okay."

He puts the phone and the gun down and sinks to the floor, shuddering.

"I'm sorry, Doc…I'm sorry…"

One of the nurses hands him a prepared needle and he inches closer, still wary. If Jones grabs the gun again…

"Sean?" Jones looks up, his eyes red. "Sean, it's all right. We're going to take you back to your cell."

"Not the hole."

"No. Just your cell."

The man flings his arms around Jonathan's knees and he resists the urge to kick him off. Besides, this way it's easier to inject him with the sedative.

He motions the guards over and they help Jones up and lead him away. He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and straightens his glasses.

"Don't you all have work to do?"

There's a sudden murmuring and the sounds of hurried footsteps. In two minutes, the lobby is deserted save for himself, Kitty, and the secretary.

"I have to see to Christine." Kitty says. "I think I'll give her the afternoon off."

"Yes, do that." His heart is pounding. He's never done that before. He doesn't really want to do it again, either.

"Are you going to take the afternoon off, Doctor? You look peaked."

It's tempting, but no. He's fine.

"No, I don't think so. After you check on Nurse King, would you make sure Jones isn't having any reactions to the sedative?"

"Of course, Doctor Crane."

She leaves and he makes his way back to his office, shaking. He makes himself a cup of tea to try and settle his nerves before slumping back in his chair.

Next time he'll just tell them to use the tranquilizer guns. If they hit the hostage, too bad.

THE END


	18. Olivia Dove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think back, those of you who have read Year One. Think back to a certain socialite that, er, had a little accident involving seagulls. Got it? Good.

Ugh. Arkham's social functions-especially the 'ask for donations' variety-are never entertaining. Why people bother to show up is a mystery to him. What, do they think there'll be tours?

It doesn't help that he's expected to be sociable. Kitty's good at it, and sometimes she'll come to his rescue, but more often than not she leaves him to the wolves.

Like now. One of Gotham's more unusual individuals, Olivia Dove, has shown up. And, having had a few drinks, won't shut up. Granted, all she's doing is asking questions (could be worse, she could be hanging off his arm simpering, ' _Do_ go on, Doctor' and giggling), but…can't Kitty deal with this?

Please?

Just for a few minutes?

Nope, she's chatting up an old man over there. Probably getting a decent donation out of him, too. That's all very nice, but he could use some help in steering this woman away from the punch bowl and towards a cab. Or at least towards some other poor soul.

Truth be told, he doesn't like her very much. He can't say why, exactly-she's no more annoying than other people-but…something about her just…unnerves him.

What _is_ it?

It hits him when someone jostles her, nearly spilling her drink. Her relaxed stance stiffens up and she snaps, "Watch where you're going!"

Granny. She reminds him far too much of Granny.

She's got to go, right now, or he will not be held responsible for what happens.

**_Want me to deal with this?_ **

_Oh god no._

**_I'm hurt._ **

_It's not my fault you have no social skills._

**_I'm not the one that started stammering like an idiot when Sherry asked you to help her study._ **

_That was uncalled for._

**_You weren't much better when Kitty invited you over for tea._ **

He ignores that one.

"All you all right, Miss Dove?"

God, she really does remind him of Granny…that scoff, the quick turn of her head…

"Fine, thank you, Doctor Crane." She straightens up. "I really am impressed with this place."

"We try."

Salvation arrives in the form of Kitty. About time! This woman has got to go before she triggers Scarecrow.

"Miss Dove, is it?" She nods. "Pleasure to meet you."

"This is my head nurse, Kitty Richardson."

They shake hands. Good. Now he can just quietly slip out of here…

"I was just telling Doctor Crane how impressed I am." And he was just thinking of ways to suggest that she take a cab home. "I remember what it was like before-breakouts every other week, it seemed."

Yes, well…funny what the fear of straw will do. And dogs. They cost a little, but having trained mastiffs on the grounds is a good deterrent. Only one fatality thus far, and that was a would-be burglar anyway.

"He does a good job." Kitty says. "I must say, I'm surprised to see you here…"

And with that, he makes his getaway to talk to the old director, who has arrived for a brief look at the place.

* * *

"For heaven's sake, love, you looked like you'd seen a ghost."

"I don't like Olivia Dove."

"Why? She wasn't hitting on you or telling you to 'eat, young man!' Be grateful."

"She reminds me of Granny."

"Oh." She reaches over to rub that spot between his shoulders. "Just a coincidence."

"Yes." he says, but he's not convinced. "Just a coincidence."

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you in the dark, Olivia Dove is his grandmother, Marion. Small world, eh?


	19. Twisted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you ask, he flounced right by the nice, cartoony pictures and went straight for the jugular. He's an ass like that.

The new doctor has worked here for a month when he decides she's got to go.

It isn't a sudden decision. He's been considering it for a while, but it was only a few days ago that he made up his mind.

He'll tolerate the subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) flirting. He doesn't like it, but he'll cope. But he will not cope with her getting drunk at the Christmas party and accosting him under the mistletoe. (Whoever hung that up will pay dearly for it.) Kitty found it funny-she would. She has a strange sense of humor.

But no more. She'll be…taking some time off for her health.

He found out, through careful eavesdropping (okay, and asking Kitty to find out), that Miss Mary Mack suffers from crippling arachnophobia. Luckily for her, one of their patients eats any spiders he can find-they're working on it, before it was beetles. It's progress.

All it takes is a request for a private meeting after-hours, sprinkled with numerous apologies and the occasional delicate cough for sympathy.

And now here she is, shirt unbuttoned just a tad too far, glasses perched on the tip of her nose-how can she see anything, then?-and the end of her pen in her mouth-he won't be borrowing pens anymore.

"Hello, Doctor Mack."

"Doctor Crane."

"There's a new video we all have to watch-I decided I'd rather watch it one-on-one, in case anybody has questions." The lie flows smoothly from his lips. She nods and in one **umph** , she's dragged her chair far too close for comfort.

"Okay."

_See, Kitty? Other people buy my lies._

He inches over as much as he dares and starts the video. It is, of course, nothing new-a collection of clips taken from other videos, compiled with swift, nearly unnoticeable, pictures and video clips of spiders.

For the first five minutes or so, there's no noticeable change. Then it begins-subtle things first. The furrowing of the eyebrows, the absent scratching at the arms, a hurried brushing aside of the hair. Good. Very good.

"D-Doctor Crane?"

"Pay attention to the video, please."

She sucks her upper lip between her teeth and resumes the absent scratching. Just to see what will happen, he snags a half-shredded cotton ball from the trash, picks a few strands off-enough to feel, but not enough to see in this light-and stretches back. She isn't watching him and he drops the strands on her arm. The result is immediate and glorious-a panicked brush-brush to remove the sensation.

"I-I need to go home…"

"We're almost done."

She's really starting to get jumpy now-he can see her checking her immediate surroundings for anything. Time for the next stage.

He's got a small plastic spider-leftover from Halloween-in his pocket. He takes it out and flicks it towards her. It takes her a minute to realize what moved, but when she does…

The scream is only upped by the terrified scramble towards the door. Quick as a flash, he pockets the spider, stops the movie-it's on his personal flash drive, in case they check-and turns on the light.

"Doctor Mack? Are you feeling unwell?"

She's sobbing, scratching at her arms hard enough to leave white marks. Brilliant.

"What happened?" He kneels down in front of her, every inch the sympathetic listener. "I had no idea you were having troubles…Arkham is such a stressful environment…perhaps some time off." Ah, here's the janitor. Nosey old bat…but just what he needs right now.

"Doctor Crane?"

He leads the man to a corner and whispers, "Complete nervous breakdown, no _idea_ what could have caused it…call Gotham General, would you, and ask that they come keep her overnight? She can't drive in this state…"

The janitor leaves and he goes back to Mack, who's still huddled on the floor. Must keep up appearances, after all.

He's so looking forward to telling everyone the bad news tomorrow. He won't say anything important…but the janitor will.

Oh, yes, she's going to be very, very sorry for her behaviour.

He's seen to that.

THE END


	20. Reach a Ruin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from The Sunset Limited song of the same name. Don't know them? You're forgiven…but look them up. (TIP: search 'The Sunset Limited band' to avoid getting flooded with movie results.) Mild suggestive content, a phrase which here means, 'you'd have to be an idiot to miss it, but it's not graphic'.

_"_ _Granny, please…"_

_"_ _Wicked boy…"_

_"_ _I'm sorry…"_

_"_ _JONATHAN!"_

He jolts awake, gasping for breath and more than a little worried. This is the third night since the first test, and the third night he's been kept awake by nightmares. He's exhausted and the feelings of paranoia are lingering even during the day.

"Jonathan?"

He drops back, vowing to get up the minute she falls back asleep.

"Sorry."

"Nightmares?"

"Yeah…sorry for waking you."

She yawns and settles back down atop his chest.

"S'all right, love." She pauses. "You don't think it's that toxin, do you? I mean, you don't really know what it'll do, how long it lasts…"

"It's not serious." he mumbles. "Just coincidence."

"But…"

"Just a coincidence."

One of her hands-cool, smooth-reaches up to lay against his forehead.

"I dunno." He can feel her looking at him-what'll she see in the dark, anyway?-feel her hand move from his hairline down to his jaw. "I don't always believe in coincidence."

"Believe in this one."

"Jonathan…"

"It's nothing, I've been busy with work…"

"You've been jumpy. I see you, you know, starting at shadows…you don't really know anything about _this_." She props herself up, the even weight on his body shifting downwards. "What if it's permanent, my god…"

Mild paranoia can be treated. Violent hallucinations can't.

"I'm fine." he insists, no longer groggy at all. "Kitty, it's nothing, just a nightmare…"

"But you can't be sure." Her fingers move again, pressing against his throat. He can feel his pulse racing, knows she feels it, too. "You can't be sure, what if you took too much?"

"I didn't take too much, it's just a coincidence."

"But you can't be sure."

_Shaking sprawled out crucified because the restraints were old and didn't work lucky I didn't end up maimed my god_

No.

No, he can't be sure.

But there's no way to find out, either.

His throat's still raw and his muscles are sore from being tense, much too tense for far too long.

_"_ _Christ, love, you're a human knot…just hold still, I'll get the lotion…"_

But the lotion had been forgotten after about three minutes. The adrenaline, that was what it had been.

_Her lips against his, pulling back for a moment to murmur protests-"You can barely stand…"_

_He can barely breathe but that's all right, he's not suffocating or anything._

"I'm going to get a drink."

She rolls off him and he hears her pad out of the room, her footsteps muffled on the rugs. He considers calling after her to bring him water and Aspirin, but his throat doesn't want to work.

He hears a light come on, the soft _click_ nearly deafening. The room stays dark and cold.

He pushes the blankets down-they're suffocating.

_"_ _Are you sure you're up for this?"_

_No but she's real she's_ _**here** _ _she'll remind him that he's not that scared little boy anymore._

God, this room is freezing. Or is that the chill of the dead, brought by a woman with her eyes pecked out, come back from the grave to drag him down with her?

_"_ _Please…" Her hands are ice against his skin. "Please, Kitty…"_

_Then her lips are against his again, shutting him up._

It's nothing-the window's open. He gets up, shuts it, and leans against the glass, feeling the cold sink through his t-shirt. If the window gave out, he'd fall six stories to his death.

Would time slow, he wonders, during the fall? Or would it be six seconds and then…nothing?

Would he have time to feel fear?

"Jonathan?"

He turns, wonders how long he's been leaning against the window. Too long-his stomach's numb.

"It's time to get back in bed, love."

He lets her pull him away and shove him onto the bed. She's wearing an old shirt of his, he notices. Where'd she find that? Has to be from college-he wouldn't be caught dead in that thing these days. What if he meets someone from work? (Or, more accurately, what if they see him first before he can duck down another aisle?)

_"_ _G-god." The bed's firm against his back, thank god-he couldn't stand up now if his life depended on it. "Don't stop."_

"You're not coming down with a fever, are you?"

"Mm?"

"Your face is flushed."

Can she see that? Or is it because her fingers are brushing against his head, taking his glasses off?

"I'm fine."

"If you're not perked up tomorrow…"

"I'm _fine_ , Kitty."

She flops down next to him and rolls over.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"All right, love." She yawns, stretches out. "G'night, then."

Yes. Night. Sleep.

But not for him, not with that slow, steady breathing coming from the far corner.

Not tonight.

THE END


	21. Arkham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't believe in ghosts, but once I was on a class trip to a hotel. Modern, no ghost stories attached, nothing. But one of the rooms we'd reserved…something was wrong with it. Even the teachers wouldn't go in there.
> 
> Anyway, my imagining of Arkham Asylum borrows a bit from Shirley Jackson's Hill House.

He's never stayed after hours before. He's never had to, and the old director wouldn't hear of it anyway.

But now…now he can stay as long as he likes.

Arkham is very old-not as old as Keeney Manor, but old just the same. And it _feels_ like Keeney Manor-like it's hiding something, like there's always someone watching him from the shadows.

Twice now he's gotten up from his desk, convinced that he saw someone in the hallway, and seen nothing. The patients are sleeping, the guards are…wherever it is they are…and he is alone.

Well, mostly, anyway. Kitty's sorting out something on the lower floors-training one of the night nurses, maybe-but she's already been at it for most of the evening and she'll be through soon.

He leans against the wall, wondering what's on the other side of it, wondering what exactly is in the closed-off part of the building that's always kept locked.

His predecessor told him it was kept preserved, per old Amadeus Arkham's wishes, as what the asylum had been like when it was a house. But he had never told him anything else, and further inquiries had earned him a stern, "That's enough, Dr. Crane."

Old fool. It's no wonder he was forced to retire, especially after prescribing a fatal dosage to a patient. Tsk, tsk.

He gets up and rubs the bridge of his nose, wondering if those are _rats_ he's hearing in the walls.

"Jonathan?"

He looks up and this time there really is someone in the hallway.

"Hi, Kitty."

"I think it's time we went home."

No…no, not yet.

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"You know that part of the building that's closed off?"

"Yes, it's a health hazard."

"Regardless, I want to see it."

"Why?"

"Curious." She sighs but steps aside to let him out of his office. "You don't have to go if you're scared."

"I'm not scared."

He doesn't say anything to that, just takes his keys and a flashlight and makes his way to the forbidden door.

It hasn't been opened in a long time-the lock is stiff and for one horrible minute he thinks it won't open at all. But it gives and the door opens without a sound.

The room inside is dark and cold and dusty. There's a scuttling noise from a corner-a mouse, maybe, or even a large spider. God, when did someone come in here last?

"I can't see a thing…"

"Hold on, I brought a flashlight."

The light's beam is swallowed up by the darkness, but he can see bits-dead insects, cobwebs, a large wolf spider-on the floor.

"Let's get out of here."

"There's nothing to be scared of. Come on."

"But…"

"Fine, you stay here and I'll explore."

"Not on your life!"

"Then come on."

The spider hurries back to its corner as they enter.

What was this? Everyone knows of Arkham's…unpleasant history-crazed workman, crazed founder, murder all around-but this…what did this used to be?

"Must've been the servants' quarters or something." She shivers. "Gloomy place…"

Yes. Forgotten. Sick.

Not for the first time, he feels the disease oozing from the stone walls. No wonder that man tried to burn it to the ground six years ago…no. There is nothing wrong. It's just an old building with an ugly history and an ugly present. Nothing more.

He opens a door and finds himself in a nursery. There's a dollhouse here-nearly fallen apart from the damp-and an empty bookshelf, and a handful of porcelain dolls. One of the dolls is missing her head-it's rolled off into the corner and one of its eyes is missing.

"I don't like dolls."

"Pediophobia." he says absently, looking at the severed head. He wonders how it detached from the body. Perhaps it was ripped off…wasn't old Arkham supposed to be mad? Maybe he'd pulled the head off.

"Come on, love, let's go home."

"Another minute…"

What's that noise? Sounds like footsteps. Maybe there's a way in from outside.

"Jonathan, _please_ …"

"Sh."

What _is_ that noise? An animal? A hobo?

He takes a few more steps and feels a soft breeze against his face. Yes, just an opening to outside.

There's a wooden table-in better shape than the dollhouse, but stained.

Oh.

This must be where it happened. The murder.

Arkham legend has it that Amadeus came home one night to find his wife and daughters raped, murdered, and dismembered. This must have been the room he found them in. How very interesting indeed.

There's a sudden shriek from behind him and he drops the flashlight. It bounces a little but stays lit-thank God for small favors.

"Kitty?"

"Wasn't expecting it."

"Expecting what?"

She points. Sitting in a dusty corner, looking almost like a forgotten ball, is a human skull.

Time to leave.

"Come on." he says. "Let's go home."

He locks the door behind him and does not remove the key from his desk again.

THE END


	22. Haircut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended for it be warm and fuzzy, but then I got the little black light bulb over my head. After a little bit of arguing with myself-'you did just write the Prank Date.' 'oh, but it'd be fun!'-this happened.

"You need a haircut."

"I haven't had the time. And I don't like this new hairdresser."

"Find a new one."

"When? Between the flowers and the patients and the general upkeep I…"

"Sit down."

He sat down, a little nervous as to what she was about to do. She was getting out scissors and a sheet…oh, god.

"Um…"

"Relax! I trim my bangs all the time and nothing ever happens."

This was not the same thing. What if she cut a giant chunk out of his hair? Or somehow cut his ear off?

"But…"

"Look, I'm the good cousin. Jill would just shave it off and be done. Relax."

Help.

He didn't really have much of a choice, unfortunately. He needed a trim- _just_ a trim-and he didn't have the time to seek out a decent haircutter.

But he was still keeping his eyes shut. If something went wrong, he would wear a hat until it grew back.

She wrapped the sheet around him and took his glasses off.

"It'll be fine."

"Have you ever done this before?"

"No, but I've seen Mum do it lots of times."

That was not helpful.

_Snip. Snip-snip._

And five minutes later, a word of death reached his ears.

"Dammit."

"What? What happened?"

"Just calm down, I can fix it."

"What did you do?"

"Relax, it's not even noticeable."

"What did you do!"

She ignored him. Now too nervous to move-she was still holding the scissors rather close to his head-he squeezed his eyes shut even tighter than before and hoped it would all be over soon.

And that Arkham would explode, thus saving him from having to go in public for a few weeks.

"Shit…well, I did what I could." She pressed his glasses into his hand. "Look."

There was a mirror on the table in front of him.

Wait…

"It's…fine."

"If you'd been looking in the mirror, you'd have known it was fine. I just wanted to scare you a little, since you were being a wee bit dramatic about the whole thing."

THAT WASN'T FAIR.

"You are a horrible person."

"I told you it'd be fine."

"You gave me a heart attack!"

"Should have been looking." She ran her fingers through it. "Nice and even."

He melted back into the chair. Oh, boy.

THE END


	23. Involved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written before Gotham came out and the particulars of Oswald Cobblepot were established, so ignore that.

Ugh. He doesn't want to go all the way down to the docks to pick up that shipment. Can't they drop it off somewhere, like he asked?

Of course not, it could be a set-up. Paranoid little…

"Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?"

"Yes. One of us has to be awake tomorrow."

"But…"

"I'll be back before two. Relax."

"You're dealing with… _them_." She grimaces. "They didn't even finish school!"

"I know that."

"They make a living killing people!"

"I know that, too."

"They probably don't even know what soap looks like!"

"Don't send them any, it'll make their heads hurt. Go to bed at a reasonable hour-don't give me that look-and stop worrying."

She harrumphs at him and crosses her arms.

"If you die, would you rather be buried or cremated?"

"You pick. Maybe you can preserve my eyes in a jar."

"Fine. You get fed to the sharks. Out."

"Night, Kitty."

She flips him off and he grabs the car keys off the hall table.

It's drizzling outside-a nice change from the torrent it was earlier. He turns off the radio and takes a deep breath, tasting clean car, smog, and that nasty grimy taste that is Gotham city.

Hopefully this won't take too long.

* * *

Falcone isn't here yet-typical-but someone else he knows is. Oswald Cobblepot, lackey for someone else he occasionally does business with.

"Oswald."

"Jonathan."

And that is all. There's nothing to discuss. How would that go, anyway? 'Illegal shipments?' 'Yeah, you?' 'Yeah.'

It's just best to know as little as possible. Unless you need it for blackmail, then ply them full of liquor and let them hang themselves. Edward does that-he's never used it, but he has a laptop filled with pictures, video, and audio that could get most of the GCPD jailed for a long, long time.

"Doc." Doc _-tor_. Not hard. "Cold night."

It's cold almost every night here. Idiot.

"Yes."

"This shouldn't take too long. You want 'em at…that apartment complex on Grace Avenue, right?"

"Why did you drag me down here, Mr. Falcone." Stay polite. "It's late, cold, and you don't need my assistance."

"I don't want ya gettin' any ideas, Doc." Falcone claps him on the shoulder. "You're one of us now. No squealing."

Sometimes he wonders if he can get away with serving poisoned coffee. It's not as though anyone would miss this buffoon.

"Tell them to hurry up."

Falcone smirks but says nothing. It's at times like this that he sees why Cobblepot hates Fish Mooney so much.

He should have brought a thermos. Or a flask.

* * *

By the time he gets back, it's after three in the morning and he's soaked through, numb, and annoyed. By the time he got home, the rain had resumed its relentless assault and his umbrella was useless for the dash from the car to the building.

"How'd it go?"

"You should be asleep."

"You know I can't sleep by myself." she reminds him. "Tea or hot chocolate?"

"Hot chocolate."

She brushes by him

_Is that my shirt?_

and reaches for the milk. He goes to get out of these wet clothes before he freezes to death.

"A lot or a little?"

"Medium."

He knows she's grumbling about his being difficult and has to repress a grin.

"Here, love."

"Thanks."

"Can you make it to work?"

"Do I have a choice?"

She shrugs and flops back on the bed. She _is_ wearing his shirt (and nothing else)-the long sleeved green one that disappeared two months ago.

Oh, well. It never fit him that well anyway.

"You should have gone to bed."

"I'm not that tired."

He finishes his hot chocolate and falls onto the bed, knowing he needs to brush his teeth but having difficulty keeping his eyes open.

Five minutes…

Five more minutes…

Night.

THE END


	24. New Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Croc's appearance is based on Arkham Asylum. Scary mofo coming through.

"We've got a new one coming tomorrow."

"What d'you mean, 'new one'?"

"A new patient. What else would I mean?"

"No. Every time you pull me aside to tell me about a 'new one', it means we've got a proper madman coming in. Now what is it this time?"

"Killer Croc."

Oh.

Oh, dear.

Waylon Jones, or 'Killer Croc', as the media had dubbed him, was a cannibal. He had some other things under his belt, but who cared about those.

"What? Why here?"

"We're the only place that can hold him."

"We can't hold him!"

"He'll in the basement."

"The basement?"

"It's the only place that will fit him. It'll be fine-they've been handling him with a shock collar."

"Well, _that's_ humane."

"He already tried to eat an officer."

Oh. Couldn't be helped, then.

"You're not going to treat him, are you?"

"We'll see."

That always meant yes. Dammit. Maybe they could pawn him off on someone out of state.

"Jonathan, just…"

"Not right away. Eventually."

Never, if she had her way.

* * *

Croc was scheduled to arrive at six-thirty P.M the next day. He arrive at six-forty-five instead, thanks to traffic. Most of the staff-certainly the secretary and the interns-had been sent home, and the others had instructions to carry on as usual.

Unsurprisingly, the lobby was rather crowded. As long as they stayed out of the way, she couldn't really blame them for wanting a look. She was curious, too. Not pleased, but curious.

She'd been expecting a big man. She had not been expecting _this_. Jesus, what was he, eight feet? Nine? Accounting for the fact that she had to crane to see everyone, she was guessing eight.

Eep.

He wasn't a rail, either. He was made of muscle and scales and unless she was very much mistaken, those were _teeth_ jutting out of his lower jaw.

She hadn't realised she'd taken a step forward until Jonathan reached behind him to nudge her back. Behind her, a few of the nurses, who had been whispering excitedly up until now, silenced.

Croc was drugged but not out-he was too big for the gurneys. He seemed to be sniffing the air.

"Where d'ya want 'im, Doctor Crane?"

"This way."

Suddenly she wasn't so sure that the basement would work out. And what the hell were they supposed to _feed_ him?

Hopefully the sight of him had taken all notions of therapy out of Jonathan's head. She doubted it-he was stubborn that way, often to the point of stupidity.

The little party made its way to the basement door. It had been outfitted like a regular cell, for the most part, albeit better reinforced.

"Here. This should hold him."

"I hope so, Doctor."

So did she. When Napier escaped, the worst that happened was a dead nurse or four. If this thing escaped, she doubted they could get him back in.

"Welcome to Arkham, Mr. Jones."

Croc turned a heavy head in their direction and gave what might have been a smile.

"Too boney for a decent meal." he rumbled. "Maybe a nice toothpick, Doc."

"That's not in the plans, Mr. Jones."

Croc blinked once and suddenly lunged forward, jaws snapping. There was the crackle of electricity and he pulled back, shaking his head and growling.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Mr. Jones."

"Get in there!"

"Kindly don't manhandle my patients, Officer. It doesn't help."

Jesus.

THE END


	25. Tick-Tock, Feed the Croc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll presume that they moved him from the basement to the sewer system when the experiments began. Written while listening to Filter's 'Hey Man, Nice Shot'-those of you who watch Supernatural, it's the song that plays in the season one episode with the shifter, during the…erm…shedding. You know, teeth popping out. Yay.

"Are you sure about this, Doc?"

"Doctor." came the automatic correction. "Of course I'm sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

The question was rhetorical, but only idiots applied for the position of Arkham Security Guard.

"No offense, Doc, but you're no linebacker."

If he had been willing to loosen his professional standards, he might have facepalmed. As it was, he reached up to adjust his glasses and snuck in a quick nose-bridge-rub.

"As long as the shock collar works, there is nothing to worry about. Just keep one hand on the button."

Which, really, should be standard procedure regardless of the doctor involved. They'd already had a near-biting not two weeks ago, at feeding time. The nurse refused to go near the man again and Kitty had backed her up. He'd have to talk to her sometime, see how scarred she was from the whole experience…

"Go and fetch him."

Nobody had ever tried a therapy session with Croc before, and he knew for a fact that there was a betting pool on whether he'd be eaten. Morbid. Very morbid. And ridiculous. He had no intention of being eaten, and that was final.

Croc barely fit into the room and he didn't even try for the couch. Jonathan made a mental note to get a better one-then, perhaps, progress could be made.

"Hello, Mr. Jones."

The creature sniffed the air and looked down. Perhaps a muzzle could be ordered…they had normal-sized bite guards, but they wouldn't even reach all the way around in this case.

"Hiya, Doc."

He kept the correction to himself this time. Shock collar or not, there was no reason to antagonize the monster. Besides, he hoped to work up to removing the collar.

Someday.

Maybe.

"How are you today, Mr. Jones?" His only response was a deep chuckle. Fine. "Apologies for the lack of a couch. Next time we'll have worked something out."

This time he was answered with a full-blown laugh.

"There won't be a next time, Doc. Unless you can do therapy in here." He patted his stomach. Jonathan forced a tight smile.

"We will see." He settled into his chair and motioned the guard to the door. "Are you comfortable so far?"

Croc snorted and shook his head a bit, probably trying to get comfortable around the collar.

"Bit cramped down there, Doc. And dry."

"We'll see what we can do about that." Ah, the lies always did come easily.

"Food's bad too, if you know what I mean."

"You'll have to get used to that, I'm afraid."

Croc growled and snapped his jaws, earning a nasty shock from the guard.

"Settle down!"

"You little bitch…"

"That's enough. Leave that with me and step outside, you're not helping."

"But…"

"Out."

He obviously didn't like it, but he did as he was told. Jonathan fiddled with the dial a little before placing the remote in his lap.

"There. Now, where were we?"

"Tryin' to earn my trust, Doc?" Croc snorted. "You'll taste good, even if you aren't much more'n a mouthful."

He hit the button and held it until Croc was down, wheezing.

"I suggest you mind your manners with me, Mr. Jones." he said quietly. "You will behave like a civilized individual while in this office, is that clear?"

Croc growled and he hit the button again, cutting off any further complaints.

"Is. That. Clear?" He didn't get an answer. It was clear, then. "You're going to go back to your cell now, Mr. Jones. Next time I see you, I expect you to be in a better mood."

He opened the door and summoned the guard in.

"We're done for today. Take him back to his cell. We'll try again on Thursday."

"Sure thing, Doctor Crane."

Much better.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Jones."

Croc growled at him but made no move to attack him.

He would call that progress.

THE END


	26. Cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In all fairness, he probably meant well…at first. However, the video game adaptation of Begins (Not bad. Not Arkham Asylum, but not bad.) has him setting patients on you. Really? I check in for treatment and you set me on the Batman. The hell, Dr. Crane. Seriously.

"Shh, shh. It'll all be over soon, and then you can go home."

She was, really, one of the more harmless patients. She was more of a danger to herself than to others, having knocked herself unconscious to escape 'the nightmare man' in her room. Of course, this was after having pushed her father down the stairs…he suspected guilt was at the root of her hallucinations.

No matter. That would be dealt with soon enough. He had the formula fixed now, and she wasn't an old woman. She should be able to withstand the treatment.

He checked the straps-no need to have her hurting herself, after all. They should hold her. This was the electroshock table, it was built for restraint.

"Please…"

"This is a _cure_." he stressed. "Don't you want to go home?"

"Dr. Crane…"

"It'll be fine."

"Please…" she whimpered. "Please, I don't want…"

They never did. But they were sick, they didn't realise it was in their best interests.

"It's for your own good."

She tried to grasp his fingers when he checked the straps one last time and he moved away.

"Deep breaths, Abby." he whispered. "Deep breaths, and tell me what you see."

She was sobbing, but at least she'd stopped trying to get away. She was still tense, however, and it took him a minute to get the needle in her elbow.

Perhaps he'd see about an inhaler…once he got the gas straightened out…

It took longer than he'd hoped for the stuff to take effect-he'd have to work on that-and at first he thought it wasn't going to work. But then he picked up on the more subtle signs-quick, shallow breathing and a valiant attempt to hold still.

"That's good." he breathed. "Very good…don't fight it, Abby. This is going to help."

Her sobs had quieted, leaving her face shiny and sticky-looking. Ugh. He would never understand people's idea that they looked 'cute' when they cried. That made no sense.

"No, no…"

If she was going to fight it, it wasn't going to help. She needed to face her fears, not run away.

He took a moment to jot down the more important things-time it took to work, current (disappointing) reaction.

**_I'll make her react, Jonny._ **

_You'll endanger the entire treatment. No._

**_I'll help. You know I'll help._ **

_No, Scarecrow._

**_LET ME HELP._ **

_Scarecrow, no-!_

Scarecrow removed the glasses-he needed them, but they were ridiculous. Besides, he didn't _really_ need to see, not down here. He just needed to hear. Now, where was his face…ah! Right where he'd left it.

 ** _"_** ** _Hello, Abby."_** He put his hands on the table and loomed over her. **_"How are you tonight?"_**

And then she screamed-long and loud, enough to put Fay Wray to shame. Beautiful.

_Scarecrow, that's enough!_

Pfft. Jonny had no sense of fun, that was all.

 ** _"_** ** _That's it."_** He reached over, pushed sweaty hair off her face. **_"Scream. Scream like your life depends on it, sweetheart…because it does."_**

She jerked upwards, straining against the straps, before going completely limp.

_I swear to god, if I have to get rid of another body…_

**_Look and see._ **

Jonathan pulled the mask off, trying to get his breathing under control. She wasn't dead-she was gasping and her lips were moving.

"Scarecrow…"

_Now look what you've done._

**_What did I do?_ **

_You broke my patient, is what you did! She'll never recover now._

**_Don't pretend you're on that high moral ground, Doctor._** Scarecrow snarled. **_We both know you enjoyed it._**

_I-_

**_If you didn't want it, you'd have fought me off. Admit it, Jonny._ **

_Don't call me that._

Scarecrow laughed and he felt him melt away, retreating to his dark little corner. He became aware that he was still holding that wretched mask.

Such a simple thing. Burlap, badly stitched together with eye holes burned into it. Ugly and rather silly in broad daylight. But down here, in the dark…unsettling.

He scrunched it up and threw it aside, watching it vanish into a shadowy corner.

**_You won't get rid of me that easily, Jonny._ **

_Watch me._

**_You need me. You need what I can give you, and you know it. You're NOTHING without me._ **

He ignored the voice and set about unstrapping the girl. Nervous breakdown, he decided. A reaction to the new medication, maybe…yes, that would be acceptable.

Next time he came down here, he'd be taking the medication beforehand. He couldn't, _wouldn't_ risk this again.

Ever.

THE END


	27. Appendix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously considered kidney stones, because those REALLY hurt and it would be Karma for terrorizing Gotham and killing people, but I'm not that mean. (My mum has had one kid and two stones, and confirms that the stones were worse.) There are lines that I will not cross. Disembowelment? Sure, that's canon. Psychological torture? Why the hell not. But I couldn't bring myself to go that far. So while this bites, he should be grateful. It was almost worse.

She's surprised neither of them realised it earlier. The signs were there. She'd had hers out in college-they'd missed that one, too, but she'd thought it was cramps*.

He'd scared her half to death, not that she'd be telling him later. He was lucky, though, that they'd already been in the car, on the way home. Otherwise she might have called an ambulance-the prospect of going back downstairs was too much.

It had been nice and routine, which she's extremely grateful for. Medical things are so seldom routine with him. Clingy cold? No, that would be walking pneumonia. Recurring debilitating headaches? Migraines! (Admittedly, that one had been fairly obvious, but still.)

She's waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to come in and say, "Oh, by the way, he had a reaction to the anesthesia…"

Hell, that's likely, what with that toxin he's been working with. God only knows what _that_ does in the long-term.

"Kitty?" She blinks-was she dozing off?-and shifts a bit in her chair. "Why's it so bright?"

It really isn't, but he's always been sensitive to light.

"Hospital."

"Too bright." he murmurs. And then, "You're a blur."

"It's because you've got your glasses off." she says. "You had your appendix out, remember?"

"More of a line." he says. "A brown line."

"I know."

He lifts his hand and brushes his fingers across her face.

"A pointy brown line." he decides. She represses a smile and moves his hand back to the bed.

"Sure, love. Sure."

"Head's fuzzy."

"Surgery."

He's quiet for a few minutes and she hopes he's going back to sleep. He isn't.

"Don't wanna go to work."

"You're taking a few days off to recover." she soothes. "Now go back to sleep."

"Need to fire Combs."

"I'll deal with that." She knots her fingers in his hair. "Just calm down."

"Mm-mm. Security footage…he's got black eyes."

"Trick of the light." And maybe too much _X-Files_. "That's all."

"Black eyes." he insists. "Like crows."

For both their sakes, she hopes he isn't going to have flashbacks. That happens sometimes, when he's sick or out of it.

A change of subject is in order.

"All right, love. Maybe. How are you feeling?"

"Tired." Pause. "Headache. Fuzzy."

That's normal, then. She'd felt the same way…and she'd apparently been a comedy gold mine.

As awful as it sounds, she hopes he'll prove to be amusing. Then he'll have to shut up about everything s _he_ said.

She remembers one time, when her cousin's…boyfriend…was in the hospital, and Jill had convinced him that he was now nothing more than a head, that something had gone wrong and they'd had to amputate everything.**

Yeah, Jill's going to Hell.

"Kitty?"

"Mm?"

"What if they get out of their cells?"

"How would they get out?"

Mistake.

"The rats could let them out."

"Rats."

"That's how they always get out." he says. "The tails are lock picks. Like Scooby-Doo."

"The rats won't let them out." She represses a grin. "Promise."

He says nothing and she settles back into the uncomfortable chair. There's a few more minutes of silence before he says something else.

"Can you catch rats?"

Really?

"No, love. Now go back to sleep."

"But your name is _Kitty_." he stresses. "That doesn't make sense."

"Neither do you."

"No." He tries sitting up but gives up before she can move. "No, you're supposed to…" He makes a little batting motion. "Right?"

"It doesn't work that way." Straight face. Straight face. "Believe me."

"That's disappointing."

"I know. Now go back to sleep."

He leans against her hand.

"Should catch rats." he murmurs. "Goes 'gainst the laws of nature."

"Cats are lazy."

"Still."

She doesn't say anything and he ends up dropping off within five minutes.

* * *

"Out with it."

"Out with what?"

"What exactly did I say before?"

"Things." She tucks the blankets around him. "How about turkey salad? I'll put extra pickles in it."

"M'not hungry." He yawns and settles comfortably against the pillows with the remote. "Really."

"You have to eat with those pills. Does anything sound good?"

He gnaws on his lower lip and looks at the ceiling fan.

"Do we have any lo mein noodles?"

"Yeah."

"Peanut sauce?"

"Sure. It'll be about fifteen minutes, okay?" She drops a kiss on his head. "Just stay there."

"Thanks, Kitty."

She brings back two noodle bowls just as he's bringing up some Vincent Price film.

"Here you go, love."

"Mm." He hits play and prods the bowl. "So, what _did_ I say?"

"You were a little sappy." she admits. "And you said something about the rats letting patients out of their cells."

"Oh, god…"

"Then you asked me if I could catch rats. You were a little put out when I said no."

"Kill me now."

"Consider us even." She pats his arm. "Now you can't mock me for anything I've said."

"I think I can."

"Don't you dare."

She hates that smile. It never bodes well for her.

THE END

* I've heard horror stories. **I believe**. Sometimes I wonder if I'm dying and wish I could take people with me, but it's too much effort to get up.

**Jackson didn't find it as funny as Jill did. But he has no sense of humor.


	28. Attempts

Gently, gently…almost there now…

"This should do it." he says over his shoulder. "I think I've finally figured out what the issue is."

"Hope so." She sighs, slumps forward for a minute, then straightens up. "Do it."

Three…two…one…

**FWOOSH!**

Oh. Oh, dear.

The smoke alarm may not work, but the sprinklers do.

Well. Back to the drawing board, it seems.

Again.

* * *

"This is it."

"That's what you said last time."

"I mean it this time."

She shrugs and leans back on the stool, one foot wrapping around the leg to keep her from falling off.

"Let's see, then."

He knows a challenge when he hears it. Challenge accepted.

He fills the eyedropper and applies three drops of flower extract with a steady hand. There is no fire.

For about two minutes. He's just saying, "See, Kitty? I told you…" when…

**FWOOSH!**

The giggles turn into straight-up cackles as the sprinklers turn on again.

* * *

The stool has been replaced with a desk chair. (She tripped over the stool last week.) Unfortunately, this means that she can spin.

Gently…gently…just one drop…

**BOOM!**

He staggers back, coughing but grateful that it wasn't worse.

Until she comes to a screeching halt, takes a look at him, and bursts out laughing.

"You're going to have to come up with a lie."

"For what?"

"Eyebrows."

WHAT.

Oh, god. That little explosion rather…removed them.

"I could pencil them back on, but…"

"Kitchen fire."

The sprinklers turn on again.

This is not worth it.

* * *

The eyebrows grew back-they took too damn long, as far as he's concerned-and two people had to get moved to the graveyard shift because they couldn't keep their snickering to themselves.

"Well? Is it going to catch on fire again?"

He ignores her. She spins in the chair, slumped over the back of it like a six year-old.

Okay. Easy, easy…

**Drop.**

He leans back out of habit, waiting for the flames. They don't come.

"I think I got it."

She stops spinning and blinks a few times.

"Dizzy…you got it? No fire?"

"No."

"You get to keep your eyebrows?"

He reaches back and sets the chair spinning again.

THE END


	29. Zsasz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Rachel, Zsasz belongs here. The guy carves tally marks on himself for KILLING PEOPLE. He ENJOYS it. What makes you think he's 'normal crazy'? If it had been practically anyone else, you'd have had a point. But it wasn't, and that is why I laughed when you were poisoned.

Dawes annoys him. He doesn't mind a little professional argument, and sometimes she has a point (too many more points and she'll have to go), but she's just…so…dense.

Zsasz is living proof. Two days here and he's tried to kill somebody-an orderly bringing food. Two. Days. This is his first therapy session, and Jonathan's never been more grateful for sedatives.

He'd considered saying no, no drugs, but then there was the near-stabbing-with-a-spork and Kitty had begged him to at least give him _something_. Being stabbed did not sound fun, nor did the inevitable 'I told you so' should he survive.

Zsasz is nice and relaxed now, but not so out of it he can't speak coherently. Although Jonathan is beginning to wish he couldn't.

"Cutting and cutting and cutting…"

He started describing his latest kill-someone got on Falcone's bad side-but he's a little hung up on the dismemberment part. The two orderlies are eyeing each other nervously, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Mr. Zsasz?"

He looks up and grins.

"Hi, Doc."

"Seems like you got a little lost there." Be nice. Helpful doctor. A goddamn saint. "Do you remember what we were talking about?"

Zsasz tries to nod, but his head ends up sort of…flopping. The effect makes him look like an ugly rag doll.

"You'll have a mark too, Doctor. Don't worry." One finger comes up and jabs his chest. "Right there. You'll always be close to my heart."

That sounds incredibly unappealing, actually.

"I think that'll be all for today, Mr. Zsasz." God, he has to have Kelly in next, she always gives him a migraine… "Take him back to his cell, please."

"Bye, Doctor Craaane." Zsasz calls as he's strapped into his cart. "See you next time."

Next time he'll have the camera rolling, to take video for dear Miss Dawes. That should show her that sometimes people really do need to be here.

THE END


	30. Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two ways of getting out of this. One: I have carpal tunnel. If I'm not already wearing my braces, I can be like, 'better not, my hands aren't doing so well, I nearly dropped my coffee this morning'. Two: allergies. They're mostly under control, but I can play up the rasp and be like, 'better not, I'm pretty sure it's allergies, but…' BOOM. They back off so fast you'd think I had the plague. I'm so going to Hell. But so's everyone else I know, so it'll be fun.
> 
> Takes place before he's the administrator, unfortunately for him.

There is a gaggle of women in the lounge. They've converged on something and at first he thinks the sight looks like a flock of birds around a corpse.

Then he sees what's going on and mentally cringes.

Doctor Watts is on maternity leave. She's supposed to be at home with her spawn, doing whatever it is new mothers do. (He's fairly certain they don't abandon their children with crazy relatives. That's a Keeney family tradition _only_.)

"Doctor Crane!"

He's always disliked Watts. She's always been so _perky_. She's a Morning Person besides, which really doesn't help. Not to mention she seems to think _he_ needs to be mothered, which he most certainly does not. He'll stand for that from Mrs. Richardson, and nobody else.

"Doctor Watts."

Why, oh, why had he needed coffee? Dammit!

She's brought the spawn in question-a blobby little creature that rather resembles a potato.

**_What's the fuss?_ **

_I don't know._

**_Kitty doesn't want one of these, does she?_ **

_Hope not._

**_Don't touch it. You don't know where it's been…actually, you do. BUMMER._ **

It's too early for that mental image, thank you.

"Say hi to Doctor Crane, boo-boo!"

'Boo-boo' does nothing but stare at him and refuse to blink. He is not impressed.

"She likes you!"

He forces a smile and attempts to step towards the coffee machine. She follows him and he begins to have an inkling of what she's about to do.

"Want to hold her?"

"It's best that I don't…"

Everyone else is now watching them. Why do they have to share a lounge? Can't they have gender segregation? What's so wrong about that?

"Oh, it's not so hard! Here."

It's either accept the child or drop it, and he does not wish to be murdered by a mob of angry females.

It's…squishy. And floppy. And warm.

It would probably bounce, really. Children are resilient anyway-he made it to adulthood, didn't he?

A few of them giggle. He's saved by his pager, of all things-Arkham wants him.

"Jonathan, where are you?"

He's never been so glad to hear the old man's voice before.

"I have to go."

He returns the child to its mother and exits as swiftly as possible.

If there is a Hell, he's just left it.

_Brr._

He hopes to God that Kitty doesn't want one. He's fairly certain she doesn't, but something about them seems designed to send surrounding women into a frenzy.

He stays away from the lounge for the rest of the day.

THE END


	31. Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All caught up! Whoo!

He hadn't meant to stay so late, it just sort of…happened. Ugh. He'll go home on time tomorrow…honest…

Well, maybe the night after tomorrow. Maybe. He can't sleep anyway.

Now, if only he can sneak inside without her hearing him…

Crap. The lights are on. Why are the lights on? Well, there goes his 'deny being home after one AM' idea. Um…there was an accident. Yes. Blocked up traffic. And he was a witness.

He turns off the kitchen light, at least, and is just reaching for the living room light-where is she, anyway? He thought she'd be out here, reading-when there's a noise.

**_What was that?_ **

_I don't know._

**_BUSTED._ **

Oh.

There she is. Today is his lucky day. Night. Whatever.

She's asleep, half-falling off the couch, one hand lost in the couch cushions. If he's lucky, she fell asleep early.

He pauses and comes up with an idea.

He leaves her there and grabs a hurried shower before going back out, turning off the lights, and picking her up. She stirs and murmurs, "Jon'than?"

"You came out for something and fell asleep."

"Did not."

"You did. Come on, it's late."

She yawns and pokes his ribs. It isn't a very vigorous poke.

"Did not."

He sets her down, takes his glasses off, and prepares to deny everything when the alarm goes off.

THE END


	32. Rachel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half of him was probably thrilled that she died. The other half was probably miffed that he was robbed of the privilege.

"Dr. Crane? The assistant DA is here to see you."

What? Why? Did they have to die? He didn't feel like coming up with plausible lies right now, come on…

"Show them in, Minnie."

She left and he did a quick check for anything out of place before grabbing the nearest folder and beginning to fill out the paper on top.

"Dr. Crane?"

He did not look up until he'd finished his scribble.

"Sit down."

She did not. Well. The least she could do was follow protocol for 'not behaving like uncultured swine'.

"My name is Rachel Dawes."

"Pleased to meet you." He kept his hands folded atop his desk. "This is highly irregular, you know. Most people call for an appointment."

She breezed right by that little breech of etiquette and got straight to the point.

"You've been moving a lot of Falcone's men into your asylum lately, Dr. Crane." Yes. They were insane. Obviously. "I don't think they can all be as sick as you say."

Humph. What would she know? Had she gone to school for this? He thought not!

"I'm sorry to hear that." He adjusted his glasses. "And why do you think so?"

She gave him a dark look and pulled up the chair before rooting through her bag for something. He remained still, consciously trying not to blink. Blinking put them at ease, and he did not want her at ease. He wanted her out, and if he had to cheat to do it, well…he'd done worse.

"Grant Holmes, no history of mental illness, shot twelve people in a strip mall last year."

"Many conditions don't fully appear until the patient is in their early twenties or older…"

She kept right on going.

"Arnold Wesker, forty-three, slaughtered sixty people on the orders of Carmine Falcone…"

"His dummy, actually." He leaned over and took the folder from her. "Mr. Wesker is unwell, as is Mr. Holmes. Now if you'll excuse me, Ms. Dawes, I am not running a hotel. I am running a hospital. If you have concerns, you'll have to make an appointment."

"But-"

"Minnie! Ms. Dawes is ready to leave, will you escort her out?"

"Sure thing, Dr. Crane."

Ah, loyal stupidity. She'd have to go soon-he wasn't blind, those tops had been getting progressively lower and tighter-but she'd do for now.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Dawes."

The minute she was gone, the tight smile slid off his face and he shoved the folder to the side. This was potentially problematic. If she kept digging…oh, sure, a handful of Falcone's troops were crazy, but the majority of them were high school bullies unwilling to grow up.

Everything was fine. She wasn't too curious yet, he'd just have to cut back on these little favors. Other arrangements could be made. And if she got too nosey, well…he had favors of his own to call in.

Nothing to worry about.

THE END


	33. Tug

There is a reason Arkham has a dress code. It's not to spare male eyes from the eroticism of the female shoulder, or even to stamp out the 'show your underwear band' trend.

It's for safety.

Arkham, as a beleaguered Jonathan Crane has pointed out to multiple idiot interns, is a _hospital_. The people in here have done terrible things. They are not 'precious, misunderstood babies'. One of them is a goddamn cannibal-mostly children. Says they're tender. Like veal!

But there's always one idiot who ignores the code. He has no idea why. All he asks is that they wear practical, covering clothing and _keep their damn hair tied up._ And no ponytails-bun, or cut it off. Really, it's not that hard!

He's discussing the aforementioned cannibal's medication-Kitty says he's acclimating-when there's a horrific shriek two corridors over. That sort of shriek can only mean one thing.

He hits the alarm button on his way over, already trying to remember who is on the block and who is supposed to be over there at-what time is it-two thirty-three in the afternoon.

_Dakks is with Combs, Elbert should be sleeping off his lunchtime sedative…oh, no._

They round the corner and are hit with the sharp tang of blood in the air. Jonathan thinks he hears something ripping, and a second later he's proven correct.

One of the interns-what is his name again?-is held up against one of the cell doors by his ponytail. He's squirming and panicking, which only makes this worse.

The inmate on the other side of the door is a big man, Oli Sixx, in for wig-making. He is the reason long hair is banned, as this idiot is discovering. He's not easy to reason with, and he's allergic to most tranquilizers.

_I swear to god, if you even think about suing, Scarecrow will visit you!_

**_What am I doing?_ **

_GET BACK IN THERE!_

"Oli," he says carefully, inching closer to the door, "Oli, listen to me. I need you to let go now, all right?"

The booming voice echoes in the corridor.

"Nice hair."

"I know. It is. But I need you to let go now."

"Mine!" There's a yank and more ripping. The intern screams and before Jonathan can tell him to _not move_ , he tries once more to pull away.

He's successful, after a fashion. There's one more _riiiiiip,_ and then the intern is sprawled on the floor, blubbering. The hair, with a fair amount of skin hanging off the ends, disappears into the cell.

Getting it out of there is going to be a real hassle.

THE END


	34. Nuts in the Nuthouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read a fascinating-yet-depressing article on Cracked the other day about the abuse that goes on in mental hospitals. You should go and look at it someday.
> 
> This is pure speculation, but comics-Arkham really did end up in his own asylum.

"Jonathan, do you have a minute?"

He really, really _hates_ old man Arkham. The man is going to run this place into the ground or get them all killed. 'Feelings therapy' 'no, no, let him express himself'-as the patient gnaws through somebody's finger. He hasn't had a session with any of the more violent patients in…maybe ever, actually, and it shows.

That, and he keeps using what little funding there is on painting 'the sunshine room', where patients supposedly get to be happy and normal. In actuality, the ugly yellow stresses most of them out and there's a bloodstain on the wall that refuses to be covered up or scraped off.

He plasters a smile on his face all the same and says, "Sure."

In all honesty, he's had his suspicions about Arkham lately. The man's getting senile, perhaps, or his natural idiocy is shining through. Either way, some of these new treatment plans…

"Come along, we'll go to my office."

Ugh. He hates that office. It's stuffy and it smells like Granny-old and probably crazy. He thinks it's been the same since the place was built.

"Sit down, sit down."

Must he? Oh, very well, but he doesn't want to.

"What did you want to talk to me about?"

Hopefully he'll make it quick. He has a session with Wilkes in an hour and he'd like to prepare a special medicine for her, one that will either scare her back to sanity or scare her into catatonia-either way, she'll stop trying to put his eye out with a needle. Well, if it works, anyway. It's just a rudimentary thing, a combination of different medicines-a bit of Nyquil, a bit of aspirin*, and a few other things-but so far it's been promising.

"I've been hearing things lately, Jonathan." Oh, _really_. "I don't really want to believe them, but several of your coworkers have mentioned things…" Who are they, and where do they live. "Your methods have become increasingly unorthodox…"

**_I know you said no more murder…_ **

_NO._

**_You didn't say anything about insanity._ **

_True._

**_You wanted to try that new formula…_ **

_I did._

**_Shut him up._ **

Arkham's been rambling for several minutes now and Jonathan schools his features into some cross between shock and indignation. When the old man stops for a breath, he leans forward.

"A few months ago, Doctor May showed some interest in…a relationship…outside of work. I refused, and since then she seems to have been running a campaign against me." _Innocent. I haven't so much as run a traffic light._ "Is she one of the…complainers?"

"I can't tell you their names, boy!"

_That's IT. You don't. Call me. That._

**_He's gotta go._ **

_Agreed._

"I'd just like to mention it." he soothes. "That's all. Emotions are funny things, and if she's got enough friends…" He forces a nervous smile. Arkham coughs, a horrid, phlegmy old-man cough, and he has an idea. "Can I get you some tea, sir?"

"Hot water's not working." comes the gruff reply. Excellent.

"Mine is, I'm right down the hall. May I…?"

He gets permission and slips into his office. Now, where is that vial…ah! There. If it works, good. If not, he'll just have to be very careful for a bit, until the suspicion wears off.

He empties the whole thing-Wilkes can wait-into the cup and brings it back, every inch the concerned underling.

"Have you been to the doctor for that cough, sir?"

"Insurance's pitchin' a fit."

He makes the appropriate noise of sympathy and settles in to wait.

He doesn't have to wait long, as it happens-after about ten minutes of concerned chatting, Arkham drops the cup.

"Get out!"

"Sir?" He makes a show of looking around the room. "Are you feeling all right?"

**_You're such a dick._ **

_One must keep up appearances._

**_Still._ **

_SHH._

"Get out, you can't be here!"

Fascinating. And very gratifying.

"Sir, there's no one-"

He's not expecting what happens next. Arkham snatches up a stapler and rises from his chair with more speed than Jonathan would have expected of him. Then he rushes the wall and starts hitting it with enough force to leave nasty dents.

He steps out-no need to call Arkham's attention to _him_ -and shouts for an orderly.

"I don't know what happened, he just…a nervous breakdown, maybe, I don't know…" Perfect. Panicked, confused, horrified. "Watch out, he's got a-"

**THWACK!**

An orderly staggers back out, a staple embedded in his forehead.

An investigation is conducted, of course, and it's decided that Arkham has suffered a terrible reaction to aspirin. He is given a room here and Jonathan, much to his surprise, is offered a promotion.

His first order of business, he decides, is to redo that damned office.

THE END

*Aspirin is listed as a medicine that can cause hallucinations. Granted, this is in event of aspirin poisoning, but still.


	35. Bored

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be nicer, but...y'know...what can I say, he's precious when caught off-guard.-Kitty

Jonathan hates these events. Always has, always will. Arkham is not there for the entertainment of the rich, it is a hospital, and organizing anything short of a patient transfer is exceedingly difficult.

Also, it upsets the patients for _days_ afterwards.

But it gets funding, funding they desperately need (how the city thinks he can contain inmates in this overcrowded place is beyond him), so he plasters on a smile and daydreams about murdering everyone in the building.

He's refilling his water glass-he doesn't drink at these events; somebody needs to have a clear head should something _happen_ -when Kitty sidles up next to him.

"Having fun?"

"No." He offers her the water pitcher. "Are you?"

"Not a bit. Ta." They stand there for a few minutes, watching one of the nurses flirt up an old man who's making no attempt to look at her face. "Poor Jen. Guess she had to take one for the team."

"Mm."

She takes a sip of her water.

"I can't wait to go home." She swipes a dinner mint off the table and pops it in her mouth. "Fuck you senseless."

She walks away just as her words actually hit him and he chokes on his water.

"Dr. Crane?" How long has Jones been standing there? "You okay?"

"Wrong pipe." he manages to choke out. "It's nothing."

"You sure?"

"Yes." _Act natural._ "I'm fine. Thank you."

Jones leaves and Jonathan permits himself a brief eye-close. One of these days, she's going to give him a heart attack.

THE END

 


	36. Rest My Chemistry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Interpol song of the same name.
> 
> Interestingly, blue flowers (supposedly) stand for 'desire, love, the metaphysical striving for the infinite and unreachable, and the hope and beauty of things'. The more you know.

The blue flowers, when dried and burned, produce an incense. He supposes that lesser men would find the effects frightening. All he notices is an elevated heart rate and blurred vision, but he knows what fear is. Fear is cowering under the covers, listening to heavy footsteps on the staircase. Fear is cawing crows and tearing beaks and grasping claws.

This isn't fear. But it could be.

There is little information to be found on the flower. The internet has no idea what he's on about, and botany books-even antique ones, the ones focusing on obscure things, are useless. All he knows is what Ra's told him, and he doesn't trust any of that. Not without proving it to himself first.

He tries longer drying times, shorter drying times, slow burns and quick, hot, flashes. The flower alone, he discovers, is weak. Oh, it has potential, but-rather like a potato-it doesn't do much on its own. It needs help.

He tries mixing it with his own compound, the one he made specifically for the phobics he has to treat. All that does is make it blow up, scorching the table and singing an eyebrow. So it's a volatile flower. Good to know.

Perhaps starting smaller is the way to go. That's always been his problem, skipping steps and grasping for the solution outright. (As a child, it made math a real problem because what did it matter _how_ he got to the answer, yes?)

Kitty wishes he wouldn't bring it home, he knows that, but it's bothering him now. Everything aside-recognition, money-he does not like to be beaten by botany. It irritates him.

He strokes the stem, feeling the soft prickles against his fingers. It should be obvious, shouldn't it? He's missing something, he knows he's missing something.

"Jonathan." He looks up. "Let it go for tonight. Please."

But he's _missing something_.

She tugs at his sleeve and he finally sets it aside. She's right, technically-three nights now he's been up until three in the morning-but it is. A. _Plant_. This shouldn't be that hard.

He's out of bed at two, boiling the flower. It doesn't work.

* * *

He tries cooking the flower. Literally, he throws it in a pan with olive oil and salt. It makes no sense, but he's had too many days with too little sleep and he's frustrated.

The flower sticks to the pan and has to be soaked off over a three-day period.

That's the last straw for Kitty, who bans 'that bloody flower' from ever crossing the threshold again. They have an actual argument-shouting and all-over that one, actually, but in the end he agrees to leave it at Arkham.

He stays with it, and for a few days they don't speak at all outside of a professional interaction. The little bit of time he does spend at home is quieter than a tomb.

(Scarecrow blames him for this. Scarecrow was not consulted for his opinion, and should be quiet.)

Kitty eventually comes down, still saying nothing, and takes a seat next to him. Silence reigns for another hour before she asks him what he's trying this time.

The flower remains uncooperative. He's not surprised.

* * *

It's another month before finally-finally!-one of his patients shows any sort of reaction. It's not a gas, not yet, and it's nowhere near enough of a reaction for his liking, but it's something, it's _something!_

He returns to the main room, makes a few notes (must test another, perhaps this one's particularly sensitive) and goes to pluck another flower from the little garden on the table.

"Anything?" Is that dinner? What time is it?

"I've got something." he says breathlessly, glancing at (god good, so many) formula one-sixty. "I've got something, not _the_ thing, but it's a step-"

"You got something?" Tap-tap-tap. "You got that bloody thing to do something after all?"

It is dinner-Mongolian beef, smells like.

"Sort of, it's not quite what I was hoping for, but it's something-"

She launches herself at him and flings her arms around his neck.

Maybe the flower can wait, at least while they have dinner.

THE END

 

 


	37. Accidents Will Happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kitty’s the sort who would’ve coasted mildly to, say, thirty-four or so, and then gone postal on her workplace.
> 
> This was fun. She’s also the sort to do the Bitchy Mocking Voice, which was hilarious to hear in my head.

You don’t forget your first, that’s what they say. I remember mine, but I don’t know if it’s because he was my first or because I hated him.

It wasn't planned. I didn’t…I didn’t go in there with any untoward intentions or anything. I _didn’t_.

It was a stressful time, you know. Arkham…Arkham’s lost it a bit, now-we’re too clever for the old girl, too clever for the doctors and the guards-but I can’t really blame them. It’s old. It’s difficult to keep everything in line-patients, coworkers, things like that. And then came that business with Ducard or whatever his name was, and Falcone.

I never liked him. Sorry son of a bitch, fancied himself Gotham’s puppet master. His men weren’t any better, you know. I remember the first one that got checked in, as a ‘favour’…oh, he had a nasty surprise when I came in to sedate him. Thought he’d get smart with me. Guess he never learned that the nurses have all the power in those places.

He made himself useful, anyhow. I think he’s still there, in that little wing away from us, the one for the hopeless patients. The ones the hospital won’t take on, you know. Jonathan likes to visit him sometimes. Just to see how long that stuff really lasts. It’s been a few years and he’s still not quite right in the head, so…

I…I didn’t…it was inevitable, I suppose. Killing that man. Had to happen sometime. But I didn’t mean to.

I wasn’t supposed to deal with him, you know. He’d said things before. But Jonathan was busy, and I said it’d be all right. I can take care of myself, y’know. I’m not some little slip of a thing that can barely pick up a butter knife. He worries, is all. He’s funny like that.

I don’t remember the specifics, exactly. Something about the shipments. He, ah, he wasn’t happy to see me. Something about man’s work and no woman of his would be handling this. The usual jokes about kitchens. Something about fucking the insolence out of me.

You know the type. Think they’re better than you.

There was a gun on the table-I think he’d set it there to try and scare me. I’m fast, you know. I’m little, I’ve got to be quick just to keep up with you tall lot.

He didn’t…expect that, I think. I was just going to scare him, to shut him up. But he didn’t…he didn’t stay still. He came closer and he was shouting.

And then he wasn’t saying anything and there was this _click, click, click_ noise. You know, the one that comes when there’s no bullets.

I called Falcone. I remember I did, because I had to step over him to get to the phone. ‘Bout tripped on him, actually. Lug. But I said we wouldn’t be working with this spokesman of his anymore, and if he wanted to pitch a fit he could take it up with Ducard. He didn’t want to pitch a fit. He just said he was sorry to hear that and that he’d send someone with mannas out next time. That’s how he said it, too-mannas. Grates on my nerves, you’ve no idea…

We chucked him in the river. It was right there, it’s not like his coworkers haven’t ended up in it before. I remember the boys we’d hired-dumb as a box of rocks, I swear-were unsettled. They thought I was going to start shooting at _them_. It was funny, a little. Funnier when Jonathan got there. They panicked. I don’t know what they thought he was going to do. I was fine. As I said, they were dumb.

Scarecrow was happier about than Jonathan was. Got out something about ice cream cake before he got his trap shut. Y’know, it’s the creepiest thing, watching them interact…

Jonathan was more worried. He’s always been like that. Asked me about half a dozen times if I was all right, made me take the next day off of work. Pulled Director Rank and everything. And _then_ took my wallet so’s I couldn’t take the train. I don’t think you realise how irritating it is to get dressed and go to see how much money you’ve got, only to find a little note that says _STAY HOME YOU KILLED SOMEONE JESUS CHRIST_ floating in your purse. Do you realise how irritating that is? And _then_ he blocked my calls! Seriously, I tried to get them to put me through and that chit just kept saying, ‘Dr. Crane says you’re sick and don’t need to worry about work right now’ and wouldn’t.

Turns out he was right, though, because around one or so I ended up vomiting. It’s not like I thought I was going to be arrested-don’t be silly -but…it’s a weight, at first. When you realise you’ve killed someone. I don’t expect you to understand. You’re all so…innocent.

Not like I regret it, mind. I mean, if I were to do it again with the skills I’ve got now, I’d make it last, but I wouldn’t take it back.

He had it coming. He did. He _did._

THE END


	38. Suspicions

Harvey gives Jim a _Look_ and hisses, “Why.”

Okay. Jim can’t entirely blame him for not wanting to come. But too bad. It’s not like it’ll be that terrible, anyway. A couple of questions, and they’ll be on their merry way. This isn’t even official or anything, technically.

They stop outside the hospital room in time to hear, “-and I could see her lookin’ about to ask for help, and I…I’m not a good person love, I’m so sorry, I turned ‘round and speedwalked into another aisle.”

Huh?

There’s wheezing and coughing and a rasped, “Don’t make me laugh, Kitty, it really hurts.”

“Sorry…but anyway, that’s why we don’t have ice cream at home.”

O-kay, then. You know what, he doesn’t want to know.

He makes Harvey knock-Harvey’s knocks are scarier, and the look of betrayal is hilarious-and calls, “GCPD, can we ask a few questions?”

“Come in.”

Crane looks tired and washed out but lucid and decidedly annoyed. Jim can’t entirely blame him-Arkham has enough problems without a fire, and Crane has been busy. Last time they met was shortly after a near-breakout, actually, and the place has only taken more patients since then.

But there was that fire-Firefly, funnily enough-and he’s now here for observation. Jim’s hoping the nurses won’t throw them out before they’re through.

“What did you-” Crane interrupts himself with a dry hack. “need. My apologies, I lost my voice.”

“I told you not to call and demand information…” Richardson sighs. Crane jabs a skeletal finger against her forehead and she laughs, swats him off.

“She’s not helping.”

“I suffered Wal-Mart for you! Alone! It was Hell, literal Hell, and that’s the thanks I get? Fine. I’m reading the next few chapters of _Doctor Sleep_ without you.”

Crane turns, if possible, paler.

“Kitty…”

She rolls her eyes and pats his head.

“Relax, love, I wouldn’t. What did you need?”

“Just a couple of questions.” Harvey keeps shooting Jim looks as though it’s his fault they’re here. Which, okay, it kind of is, but Haaaarv Firefly was supposedly sedated how did he get out and set Arkham on fire? How is that not suspicious?

Crane shrugs, thin fingers shredding a tissue in his lap, and turns unblinking eyes to Jim.

“Of course.”

Jim’s not gonna lie, Crane…really, really creeps him out. He doesn’t blink. There’s no family to be found, not even a random cousin. And it’s weird that all it takes to control even the more violent inmates is his turning up. Charitable people would say he’s clearly good at his job, that his presence is calming and means that all will be right with the world.

Jim is not charitable.

“Firefly is responsible?” Crane nods. “How? Wasn’t he sedated?”

Crane visibly counts to ten, patting the shredded tissue into a little mound on the blankets.

“I do not expect you to understand the finer points of psychopharmacology.” he rasps, and now Jim’s pretty sure he’s not blinking on purpose. “I do, however, expect you to understand that it is not ‘insert medicine iiiiin-” He coughs and tries again. “Into patient, receive instantly docile individual’. For the more violent inmates such as Mister Lynns, a sufficient surge of adrenaline may keep them awake-and destructive-for a longer period. Long enough, in this case, to get his hands on some highly volatile materials and nearly burn the place to the ground.”

Hm. He’ll have to look into that.

“There’s no way he might have…I don’t know, not taken anything?”

Richardson snorts.

“We use needles as much as possible to avoid that risk.” she says shortly. “And I assure you that my nurses are competent individuals. Arkham is an underfunded asylum, Detectives. There are dangerous, occasionally…unusual…individuals in it.”

“Accidents will happen.” Crane finishes, and the way he says it is just…Jim’s getting warning sirens. “If you want to ask me aaaaanyth-anything else, I will be spending the next few days at home.”

“With a pen and paper. Stop talking.”

He shrugs and drops his tissue-mound in the trash can.

“Good afternoon, Detectives.”

THE END

 


	39. The Delicate Art of Not Murdering Your Employees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t recall if I’ve mentioned it, but Dr. Crane’s bitchface in Begins is a thing of beauty and I aspire to that. He literally spends most of the movie looking vaguely resentful people dare to be in the room with him…which is me whenever I have to leave the house.

_Kitty. Give me some sort of motivation not to murder this idiot._

**Which idiot?**

_Flake._

**His mum’s in Blackgate for murdering people for Penguin?**

_Eh._

**You just got new office carpet?**

_Good enough._

He closes his phone and mentally counts to ten. Or tries to, anyway.

**_You can Google how to get bloodstains out of the carpet, right?_ **

_No._

**_YES YOU CAN. You Google shit all the time!_ **

_That’s just asking to be put on a watchlist._

**_…you’re writing a book?_ **

_No._

**_Why couldn’t you have gotten tile?_ **

_Too cold._

“-why we need new uniforms.”

Breathe deeply. Be calm. He needs the security guards to avoid mass mayhem should the worst happen. Causing them to go on strike is not a good idea.

But if he hears one more complaint about those _goddamn_ uniforms, he’s killing the one doing it and hiring someone else.

He takes his glasses off and cleans them, making a conscious effort not to blink. It unsettles people, he finds. As do long silences.

So, of course, once his glasses are cleaned, he pulls out his notebook, jots down a reminder to find an excuse to get rid of this one as soon as possible, and finally returns his attention to Flake.

“Mister Flake,” he says drily, “do you have any idea how much it costs to run a hospital of this size?”

Confusion flickers across the idiot’s face.

“No.”

Mannerless little…breathe. This is nice new carpet, and it would be a shame to have to rip it up.

“Of course you don’t.” The pitying ‘that’s why I’m the director’ hangs in the air between them. “And I’m sure you have no idea how little assistance we receive from the city. After all, your paycheck is signed.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess-I mean yes. Doctor.”

Better.

He folds his hands atop his desk and entertains a mental image of Flake hurling himself from the window in terror.

“Unfortunately, Mister Flake, our budget is stretched thinly enough as it is. Short of the uniforms becoming a safety hazard,” _And maybe not even then, you ungrateful swine._ “we simply do not have the money for new ones. Unless, of course, you’d be willing to downgrade the security measures to what they were a few years ago. Granted, the escape rate was higher then, but…”

“I get it.” ‘Get rid of’ is steadily translating itself to ‘experiment on’. “Thanks anyway, Doctor Crane.”

“Perhaps next quarter.” _Not that you’d be around to appreciate it if that were true._ “Now that you’ve brought it to my attention…”

A daddy-long-legs skitters up the leg of his desk and he frowns, holds out a hand for it to crawl into his palm. Technically it shouldn’t be here, but he likes to keep a resident spider. Partly for insect control, partly because there are more than a few arachnophobes in this building.

Including, apparently, the man sitting across from him-Flake’s eyes are fixed on the little creature sitting frozen in Jonathan’s hand.

Good to know.

“Was there anything else, Mister Flake?”

“N-no, that was all. Thanks for seeing me.”

“Not at all.”

**_Throw it at him._ **

_Absolutely not._

**_Pretend to throw it at him._ **

_Imagine what mature adults do._

**_Oh, no…_ **

_Can you? Of course not. THEY DON’T PRETEND TO THROW SPIDERS AT PEOPLE._

**_Fine, Doctor Stick-Up-The-Ass._ **

He chooses to continue being a mature adult and doesn’t respond to that.

Flake leaves the room a little faster than most people would and he ferries the spider to the wall behind his desk and coaxes it off his hand. It scurries up to the corner and he returns to his chair, phone in hand.

_I resisted temptation._

**I’m so proud.**

_I’m going to kill him later. Or at least severely maim him._

**-.-**

THE END


End file.
